Mirror mirror on the wall...
Should I cut of my nose to spite my face?
When I was eleven or twelve, I asked my mom for a nose job. My dad had a nose job, even though he said it wasn’t for cosmetic reasons; the man is vain as hell. His deviated septum was clearly his convenient excuse. My mom recalled that at the time, she was torn and not sure the right thing to do. On one hand, she wanted my idea of beauty to come from within, and on the other, if it made me feel more confident, maybe it was worth it.
Also, I’m Jewish. So many of us change our noses. Remove the familiar trope from the world. Cause if it isn’t there, they will like us more. Right? Changing the way we look to fit into an Aryan world.
At least, that’s what it seems because so many Jewish women change their faces. I constantly ponder if it is common sense to assimilate or if we need to rise above these thousand year old tropes. Rising above is exhausting. Just writing that, and my eyelids droop from the fatigue of carrying around tropes that make me believe so deeply in my core that I’m not beautiful. A big nose means I’m... I won’t write it. But I bet you can fill in the propaganda. Cause for some cultures, the big nose is regal. But for me, it means I’m seen as less than human despite this being a human dilemma.
Jews aren’t the only ethnic group that has changed their appearance to fit in. From hair straightening to breast augmentation, somehow, we can never be perfect enough, and so many cultures feel this; I myself can only speak from my experience. It’s a beauty standard we’ve all bought into, and it’s at the cost of erasing our identity. It’s nice to know the Jews aren’t alone in this, but also, who is telling all of us we are not enough, and why is it echoing so deeply in my own inner voice?
There are many times I’ve brought this up, and I hear, “You’re beautiful just the way you are.” But I’ve never internalized it enough to believe it. I’m not sure my mom believed it for herself. There was always a diet, a new cream, and laser treatment. Her hair and makeup always needed to be done. I always felt like a little doll that needed to dress up and be made up, and I was criticized if I didn’t try. “You look schlubby.” It’s not just my mom; it came from my Grandmother and, I’m sure, the generation before. It’s how we survived and defied expectations.
If I was skinny, I was praised. If I did my hair. I was praised. If I did my make-up I was praised. And not just by my family. As a teenager walking in NYC, I’d know when I looked fly by the amount of cat calls I’d get on the street. Degrading, maybe, but also, there was power in being beautiful in this world. I believed I was good enough that with a little effort, I could be an 8. Never a 10, but definitely above average. In the upper echelon of attractiveness. One of the biggest businesses in the world got its start by ranking women’s attractiveness. I’m looking right at you, Zuckerberg. (Funny, he’s also Jewish.)
Thinking I was an 8 is both a blessing and a curse. I find myself in the right rooms but often feel like the least special in that room. It’s a scary thing to think that belief could be coming from within me that I internalized what outside forces told me, and that belief is in the driver’s seat. It’s a belief that is likely in my epigenetic makeup. From a lineage of people being told they are lesser than us, and our resilience turning us into overachievers, only to continue to reinforce those tropes. And I wonder if the simple act of changing our faces to change our beliefs is radical resistance to a worldview. I also wonder if changing that belief inside of me is even more radical. Back to my mom’s inner debate and now appreciative that she’s giving me the opportunity to make the decision for myself.
Oh god, is this a midlife crisis? Addressing our adolescent insecurities with the bank account of an adult. I wonder if I got that nose job; if, in fact, I would have felt like a 10 and had the life of a 10. And why am I debating getting a nose job now?
Funny, I should ask myself that. See, every night, my son, who is almost three years old, and I have a little ritual. When he comes out of his bath, I wrap him in a towel, and he sits on my lap, nestling his head on my heart. It’s my favorite moment of every day. He looks at me with such pure love in his eyes. It’s also the moment when my son reveals what’s bothering him or a funny little story I’m pretty sure he’s made up. The other night, though, it was a little different.
He looked at me and pointed at the center of my face.
“What’s that?”
“My nose.”
“Your nose?”
“Yes, my nose. You have one, too.” And I gently tap it with a “boop.”
“It’s big. Big, big.” He really emphasized the word with his entire body, like his cheeks got red.
“My nose is big?” Responding while trying to hold back all the emotions boiling up.
“It’s HUGE," and then starts rubbing it gently. “I try and rub it down.”
“You're making it smaller? Why?”
“To make you beautiful.” Woof.
Okay. Deep breath. I hugged him close and reminded myself that he loves me more than anything in the world. I am his world.
I repeat this to myself while trying not to let it crush my soul, my identity, and my own sense of beauty. He’s not affected by the patriarchy yet, and he’s in a Jewish preschool, so it can’t be antisemitism. Kids. They are honest bundles of love who innately challenge your every self-belief. He’s giving me the opportunity to break the cycle. His nose is still small and cute; it will maybe grow into my family’s or represent the sperm donors. One I chose for his intelligence, health, attractiveness, and, you guessed it, a normal-sized nose. With my son, though, there’s none of the world’s baggage in this blunt, honest statement. It is me who is assigning a value to an object.
That moment stung deep, and man, oh man, the baggage inside me was overflowing. I can’t help but think this is a message from God: that our self-beliefs are our proficies.
And there are so many conflicting emotions. Taking away my nose doesn’t make me less Jewish. What if I take power away from the critic, both my own, its history, and the world? Can I commit to saying that it’s only a nose? It works just fine, and it’s regal. It is regal. The stuff of queens. If I say it enough, will I eventually believe it?
What is beauty, anyway? This isn’t a rhetorical question. I’m asking sincerely for help reprogramming my ideals cause I want to try that before I go under the knife. Where are my big-nose queens? Send me pictures from the present and the past.