CREDOS: The scar — II
Well,” sighed my father that evening, “you’ll always be pretty to me,” and he hesitated, “even if you aren’t to the rest of the world.” Right. Thanks. As if I couldn’t hear the taunts of the other kids at school. As if I couldn’t see how different I looked from the little girls whom the teachers fawned over. As if I didn’t occasionally catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror.
In a culture that values beauty, an ugly girl is an outcast. My looks caused me no end of pain. I sat in my room and sobbed every time my family watched a beauty pageant or a “talent” search show. Eventually I decided that if I couldn’t be pretty, I would at least be well-groomed. Over the course of years, I learned to style my hair, wear contact lenses and apply make-up. Watching what worked for other women, I learned to dress myself to best advantage. And now, I was engaged to be married. The scar stood between me and a new life.
“Of course, I’m not a model,” I replied with a small amount of indignation. The plastic surgeon crossed his arms over his chest and looked at me appraisingly. “Then why are you concerned about this scar? If there is no professional reason to have it removed, what brought you here today?”
Suddenly he represented all the men I’d ever known. The eight boys who turned me down when I invited them to the girls-ask-boys dance. The sporadic dates I’d had in college. The parade of men who had ignored me since then. — Beliefnet.com