I Think I’m Better Looking by Joylyn Chai
…than I actually am. I dared to have an open discussion about this for the first time a few weeks ago. The style of my appearance has been a preoccupation of mine for a lifetime, however it’s not something that gives way to natural segues in casual conversation. I am very aware that vanity is a sin. It’s a sickeningly sweet cocktail shaken with two parts self-absorption, one part shamelessness, and a dash of hubris to give it a kick.
My best friend passed away recently and I was invited to a Zoom meeting hosted by colleagues of hers whom I had never met. They welcomed me and I was made to feel special and important. We gathered under the guise of a grieving book club and turned our attention to my friend’s favourite author, Alice Munro. After a few people read some particularly moving passages, one about an open casket and the other about women in aprons jumping on hay bales, someone asked if I could shed an enlightened point of view upon the deceased’s relationship with the genius that is Canada’s national literary treasure.
If you’ve ever seen an enthusiastic racehorse locked into a starting gate, you’ll understand just how I felt at that moment. Racehorses are smart. They understand perfectly what is required of them. In the gate, their adrenaline is surging and they might start bucking because they’re ready to bolt. The bell rang, the doors swung open, and I was off.
In the story, “Accident,” two high school teachers are having an affair. Munro describes intimate acts that take place in a science class storeroom, which I might have mentioned in graphic detail to the group of bereft souls in front of me. But the affair and the dilemma that comes out of the conflict is not the primary source of interest here. The main character is vain. She takes a lot of time looking at herself in the mirror and arranging her appearance, not just for her own pleasure, but of course, for the intention of pleasuring others.
I summarized this and landed my point by stating, “Lynn, myself, and the main character walk in the world in the same way: we present ourselves as better looking than we actually are.” If people’s mic’s weren’t off, I am certain there would have been a collective gasp. The faces staring at me transformed from aching with sadness to a particular kind of dead-pan, the kind that does little to hide how incensed a soul is. How dare I associate this beloved woman’s name with such a preposterous idea! And, to make matters worse, she is dead. There was no way for her to defend herself.
It got really awkward. No one said anything for a while. Then one woman finally turned on her mic to take issue with me, “I’m sorry, but Lynn never struck me as being vain.” “No?” I replied, “Wasn’t she constantly arranging her hair? Applying and reapplying her lipstick? Don’t be fooled by that disheveled boho chic thing. Completely contrived.”
The group planned to meet a few more times, but no one has invited me back.
*
When I was a child, I remember reading about Elizabeth Báthory, the Hungarian countess who killed hundreds of young women, draining their virgin blood from their bodies only to bathe in it. Báthory’s vampire tendencies are now considered sensationalized fiction, but the desire to maintain her youth must have been true, just as it has been for women for a very very long time. For decades, Báthory’s legend both fascinated and sickened me. But now that my friends and I have aged, we talk about vanity in a way that bypasses any feelings of horror. Desire overrides disgust.
Botox, the popular injectable with exactly the same properties that makes botulism poisonous, is the sleight of hand for a tired face. Sugar threading, which I am told is all the rage, is a web of dissolving strands stitched into the skin. Something like a candy bra for the jawline. And then there’s the facial that would have been Elizabeth Báthory’s treatment of choice, the PRP. The Platelet Rich Plasma process involves the patient’s own blood, a powerful centrifuge, and a face made ready by stabbing it repeatedly using teeny-tiny needles.
The onset of menopause has flipped a switch in women who swore they would never have anything to do with these kinds of procedures. Even for those who are still holding out, like myself, we are now willing to entertain the idea that lifts, injections, facials, peels and scrubs may really be part of our near future. We ask questions about what is involved and carefully pay attention to any firsthand experience. Pack mentality can determine predictably in humans. Once the alpha starts getting botox, all the dogs want to be puppies.
*
The arrogance of my own youthful folly embarrasses me now. Almost twenty years ago, I was invited to a neighbour’s fiftieth birthday party. Most of my friends hadn’t reached that milestone and it never occurred to me just how big a deal it is. A slideshow was prepared. Champagne was uncorked. Speeches were delivered. Turning fifty is just like having a wedding, but we celebrate only one person.
That evening, the guest of honour sought me out, as she did with each person, to thank me for attending her grand fête. A remark was made about having to colour her hair, which I naively thought was a natural chestnut brown. “Are you kidding me? This costs me $100 every time I go to the salon!” I was appalled at the expense and thought her a victim of beauty standards that needed immediate revision. I declared that I would never colour my hair. The birthday girl laughed and laughed, “Wait until you turn fifty, Joylyn, then we’ll talk.”
My neighbour has since moved away and will never know how grateful I am for her grace and good nature. I was an idiot to speak so grossly out of turn. The cost of living has increased considerably. That, compounded with inflation, has me forking out over $200 for a colour and cut. Every time I swipe my credit card through the machine at the salon, I tell my hairdresser it’s worth every penny.
*
When my best friend died, she was still gorgeous, boastful about the shape of her legs and bosom, happy to slather drugstore cold cream on the happy crows’ feet dancing beside her sparkling eyes. We praised each other’s looks on a regular basis, but quietly admitted we weren’t
recipients of unsolicited compliments as regularly as we had been in the past. At this, we shook our heads, shrugged our shoulders, and pretended we didn’t mind.
What exactly is vanity worth for a woman of my vintage? I am currently perched on the age spectrum that affords me the perfect vantage point to look backward at my radiant youth and forward toward years of possible confusion and frailty. What used to be the sun is now a shooting star. Both are formidable, but when we turn away from the latter, no heat is felt. My vanity is a form of self-preservation, a kind of emotional formaldehyde to keep what I have seen of myself intact, beautiful and mesmerizing for decades to come.
Joylyn Chai is Chinese-Jamaican Canadian and teaches English to newcomers in Toronto. She loves gardening, watching NFL football games and caring for her gnome collection. Her work has appeared in Thin Air Magazine, This Magazine, The Fiddlehead, The Under Review and other journals.