Growing up, I didn't really see myself in the faces of others. Golden brown hair. Long, dainty eyelashes. A dusting of freckles across the nose. These were the unattainable features of those around me, because no matter the amount of hair-dye or makeup I used, I still couldn't quite call them mine. How could I, with my uneven eyes and tan skin, mold myself to melt into the crowd? Even the music I listened to, the stories I shared, and the foreign tongue I spoke in with my family didn't contribute to what was "normal." Who I was and how I looked in the mirror wasn't beauty, because to be different from everyone else wasn't to be beautiful.
And yet, my mother's face looks like mine, and my mother is beautiful.
So what is beauty anyways?
Beauty is in my sister's coarse, black hair, and in the bright hues of her laugh.
Beauty is in my father's voice when he sings along to radio (even when he strays horribly off key).
Beauty is in the things I hold that also belong to my friends- from our sparse eyebrows and flat noses to choices in dessert and favorite artists to generosity and determination to the languages we speak and the experiences we share.
My face must be beautiful, because theirs are too. It's an association I can't seem to make when I'm alone with my reflection, but the silver lining is that I'm never really alone anymore.
Now, I think that beauty is in the small things, but also everything at once.
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