Even before #Flawless was a movement, the idea of being perfect was lowkey everyone’s goal. If you don’t believe me, think about that time when you were in middle school and crying to your parents that dying your hair green was the biggest mistake you’ve ever made, or that no one sat at your lunch table after you spilled vegetable soup all over your white t-shirt. See them tilting their heads slightly to the left with a dismissive shrug and a, “Well hun, nobody’s perfect.”
This is the worst phrase anyone could possibly say in a moment like this because that’s exactly what you were trying to be–perfect. But the new kind of perfect that is unique and never seen before, yet instead, you end up looking more like a rugrat on vacation than (insert tv/movie/music star here).
While I’ve never been a fan of the hashtag, lately I’ve been toying with the idea that flawlessness is a waste of time. Not only because I’m too broken to “fix” what’s “wrong” with me, but also because there’s nothing to fix.
Imagine a world where moles and birthmarks are bits of constellations trying to remember where they’ve been, stretch marks are signs of you holding yourself together against all odds, childhood scars are permanent kisses from your mother when she bandaged your knees, and your body hair is a reminder that you still have more to grow.
Picture a place where rashes, burns, and keloids are praised for their resilience, acne is respected as a crown that is best worn with a head held high, and dress size is seen as a matter of personal preference.
Do you see it? I’m starting to.
My hope is to one day live there, instead of here. Luckily, I think I’m already in the neighborhood.