“I’m having a bad hair day,” I tell my boyfriend on a very regular basis. Because really, when do I have a good hair day? Almost never, for I am my worst critic. My boyfriend, however, looks at my hair, then seems confused since he does not see the difference with yesterday’s hair (which he liked). This is the problem: I am so absorbed by my own self-criticism that I counteract what I want to achieve: a better version of me.
“Omg I really admire that you dare posting a picture with no make-up on,” is one of the regular comments on fashion or beauty blogs when someone posts a “naked” picture. “Not that you need it,” they add. Not that you need it? No one needs make-up.
The last thing I expected from my anorexia was that it would bring me something good. After all, it had ruined my health and who I was, and the worst of all was the impact it had had on other people — people I love. I was right not to expect anything from my anorexia, but I was wrong to underestimate myself, my ambitions, and my desire to help other people, incited precisely by the thing I despised most.
I am walking down the street, when that bottle-blond girl from my University class passes me. She hurriedly acknowledges me with a smile before hurrying onwards to the seminar for which we’re both late. I scowl; her smile is crooked and her bright red lipstick only enhances that. It draws way too much attention to her teeth, and as she walks away from me her behind jiggles — badly. She really shouldn’t be wearing those leggings like they’re a pair of jeans — they’re not — and just like everyone else she can’t pull it off.
Guest contribution by Aisha Mansaray – I grew up as a brown-skinned kiddo with a huge bush of brown, curly hair and freckles on my nose. If you mix Dutch and African, you get a fairly tall girl, with naturally firm hips, legs, and arms. This is not something to be ashamed about at all, but still I was by the time I hit puberty.