Pretty Profound

How much of your sense of self comes from your appearance?

"All my life, I wanted to be pretty. I thought it would change everything."

These are the opening lines of Uglies, some type of sci-fi thing on Netflix. I could only stomach a few minutes before I tapped out, but the film's dystopian premise stuck. It sets out a world where beauty standards are enforced. A world in which getting plastic surgery and being the perfect size is not merely an outcome of peer pressure - it is a matter of public policy.

Some months ago, at a dinner party I was at, a very sassy girl I know asked me how much my "identity and sense of self" came from my appearance. I was an Anxious Ashwini that night, so I can't quite remember what I said, but the honest answer is that it is more than I can bear to admit.

In my household, the mantra was not "be pretty". It was "be useful". "No substance, only style!" was a common refrain my mother used whenever I spent too much time picking out an outfit. She saw the pursuit of beauty as a pretense. It was essential to her that I backed myself up with big words and good grades. I suspect it is for this reason that I have a hard time admitting that I could, in fact, be vain. My unconscious won't relent.

otherwarya

A post shared by @otherwarya

My favourite Instagram philosopher + shitposter Aishwarya Subramanyam did a whole post about it this week. She always tells the truth and I hate it.

But hey. You probably are too.

Vanity of some type is hardcoded into the social contract. My Silicon Valley-based enemy, Naval Ravikant, calls it "status games". For those of us socialised as women, a big part of this comes from our appearance.

As someone with neither, I guess I’ll just go fuck myself.

This is not the type of thing that you call out loud. It is unconscious subtext. You can feel it. In a way, society is a giant human zoo where we are all both the spectators and animals. (Side note: I suspect this is why large gatherings are so draining.)

In witnessing others and being witnesses ourselves, we internalize all these sticky concepts about what value is and how valuable we are.

I'll never forget this little prick, let's call him Gopal, who called me a dummi during sports day practice when I was ten. Gopal was in the year above me in school. Dummi is Kannada for fatso. It is a round-sounding word, and like most other phrases in the language, the real sting is in its grating vocal delivery.

He and seven other pre-pubescent assholes laughed like it was the funniest thing they'd ever heard. To be clear - none of them were Abercrombie & Fitch material themselves.

I've been every size from 'xl waif' to 'wide load'. My body changes with the fucking moon. But no matter the mirror or the scale, I've always felt like that dummi. Gopal's probably a decent guy now, maybe even has kids and a premium account on Big Basket. He'd probably shit himself if he knew I was writing about this on a goddamn substack.

Over the years, I've realized that the appearance mafia runs a sucker's game. And that beneath that sometimes all-consuming, somewhat shameful desire to be pretty is a desire to be seen.

I can't say for sure, but I suspect this isn't merely about seeking attention.

The need to be seen is primal. It is a fundamental aspect of the human experience, deeply rooted in our evolutionary past. This primal longing for recognition and acknowledgment speaks to the very core of our survival instincts and our capacity for connection. In nomadic times, to be unseen by your tribe was to risk abandonment. As the group moved from place to place in search of resources, an overlooked individual faced the terrifying prospect of being left behind. In that world, solitude often meant death. Being noticed was a survival necessity.

These days, the threats are less immediate than our cave-dwelling days, but our need to be seen remains. It shows up in more nuanced, sometimes trivial ways. We chase likes on Instagram, angle for recognition at work, and yearn for genuine understanding in our closest relationships.

When someone says "I feel invisible," my sense is they're not just being dramatic.They’re expressing a pain as old as humanity.

This is oversaid, but offering someone our full attention and genuine recognition is an easy, accessible way to affirm our shared humanity. It is, in its own way, an act of love.