beauty: real talk (or) fuh realz
I did an audition for Dove today.
It’s one of those “Real Beauty” campaigns where “real women” are featured as the actors. For real.
[Optional Rant Read: Yes, beauty standards for women in this country are obscene...Girls, fo'gettaboutit, it's at a point where idols are born out of the womb with belly shirts and navel rings, sexualized as the sexy sexy zygotes they are. Women are unable to age in the public eye without inflating their lips--like a tree, their age is measured in lip circumference--and eliminate unnecessary expressions with Botox like "happiness", "anger", or "OHMYGODABEARISEATINGMYFACE!!" While men on the other hand (she says, stepping on the second tier of her soapbox, bra and lighter poised for fire-magic), can age gracefully, shifting into character roles like Rumplestiltskin or Tom Brokaw.
Models are only models after hours of prep work, a 40: 1 ratio of shit:keeper, and an army of airbrushers. I know this because me and Tyra Banks are BFFs and ANTM is [insert text-speak equivalent of "cool."] The adjective “beautiful” seems to be saved for brides and red carpet celebrities and princess parties (which I do admit are really fun). I’m slightly ashamed that I subconsciously avoid using the word “beautiful” intentionally and instead say or hear my appearance described as “sassy”, “hot” or “cute.” All wonderful words, kind, complimentary words, but WHAT HAVE WE DONE TO OUR SELF IMAGES TO REJECT CALLING OURSELVES BEAUTIFUL AT ALL COSTS?!… Eh, you can read all of this on the liner notes of an Ani DiFranco album, you get the picture.]
So back to the day.
There were women with head shots and then there were women without sitting in the waiting room. The women with head shots went into one room and sang behind the closed doors, the other women brought their moms and sisters and were wearing more comfortable shoes.
“Okay, who here are my ‘real women’?” the casting director asked and separated the lot of us. Regular Women do not make their living as actors, apparently. In her defense, the casting director did come out after the audition and said, “Okay, I know that sounded stupid.”
Real Women are still commercially attractive. If god forbid this Real Woman is not completely symmetrical in her bone structure (which can be changed and shaped at an early age, so let’s keep that in mind, mothers who say you love your daughters), her look is considered “unique”–it’s different than normal, average, homely, handsome, freakish, or ugly. Real Women can sing, often quite well, even professionally maybe if you gave them twelve bars in an upbeat tempo. Real women are friends with their mothers and/or sisters and find comfort in bounding around in their undies together. Real women are real. Unless they are actors, and then, well… uh… quick, look at their boobies!
Also, don’t get me wrong. I’d love to get a SAG gig and run around in my underwear* promoting the idea that society’s image of beauty is skewed and we need to educate and talk to our daughters before MTV sucks the self esteem out of them. But it’s still the TeeVees. It’s still the Hollywoods. And that’s okay. Because these Super Real Women are nice people and we like them. Unless they’re not nice people and then we hate them, which we tend to do by default anyway because we actually hate ourselves.
For real.
