Welcome to my rant everyone.
To me, the desire to beautify myself has always been intrinsically mine. Not a reflex conditioned by patriarchy, but a discipline I chose — almost religious in its regimen. I do it out of self-respect, out of the petty satisfaction of standing a little above the ordinary – mediocrity offends me. And because it is the only thing that can soothe my own fastidious senses. Beauty, to me, is not compliance. It’s control, taste, and the quiet arrogance of caring. I worship beauty because I give a damn about my life.
I’m so incredibly put-off by people, men and women alike, who have this defeated attitude when it comes to beauty and refining oneself. Why is careful, accurate word choice deemed redundant? Why is good manners and etiquette archaic and uncool?
It is weird to me that in this climate, we’ve made effort the enemy. Somewhere along the way, society decided that beauty only counts if it looks accidental — that to admit you tried is to confess weakness. Women are expected to glow without labor, to bloom without water, to be effortless yet immaculate. But effortlessness is a lie; it’s just another performance, another cage. I’d rather be accused of vanity than of apathy. At least vanity implies vision — a refusal to rot.
Self-respect can masquerade as vanity,
that devotion can look like pride, and that tending to yourself — meticulously, stubbornly —the most elegant form of rebellion left, is scorned upon and women – goddesses who commit to this practice can be so easily downgraded as men pleasers?
People call it superficial, but that’s because they’ve forgotten that the surface is where light lives. We read faces, gestures, fabrics, glances — the world is built on appearances. To polish your exterior is not to betray depth; it’s to acknowledge that the soul deserves a fitting frame. When I paint my mouth red, when I trace my eyes with precision, it’s not to attract — it’s to announce. To say: I am here, and I care enough to be seen.
Meanwhile, we’ve built an age addicted to irony — the art of not caring, of caring ironically, of performing fatigue as intelligence. The new virtue is dishevelment, the new sin is sincerity. But I’ve never trusted the cult of apathy; it reeks of fear. People hide behind disinterest because they’re terrified of wanting too much. I, on the other hand, am shameless about wanting. I want beauty, control, awe — the small godlike power of looking how I choose to look.
My standards are my own and I don’t need validation – the ritual itself is enough.
At the end of the day I’ll always come home to myself and Beauty. Ultimately, these are what consoles and grounds me.
So yeah go out there and be as pretty as you can be. You owe no one “humility” 🙂