Call me cool not pretty

On gaining weight, chopping your hair off, and grieving your past body

You know shit has hit the fan when you avoid checking your reflection in any mirroring surface, knowing that this innocent reflex act will ruin your next 45 minutes. God forbid I don’t open my front camera by mistake too! Something about the woman who looks back at me is unsettling, unfamiliar, almost threatening, and I find myself trying to figure out why. Most of the time, I can’t stand looking at her, especially if it catches me off guard. After some internal back and forth, the answer appears clear to me: she looks different from what she used to. She has gained weight. She no longer has long, blonde hair. She is now…undesirable. Invisible almost?

Or so is my mind trying to make me believe, because in reality…what the fuck?

I know I am not. I also hope how I look is the least interesting thing about me. But for some reason, gaining weight and cutting my hair short completely dynamited my self-esteem not so long ago. And in a world of hashtag body positivity, let me tell you: I did NOT see that coming. I should be loving myself. I should be YASSSing and SLAYYYing and KWEEENing since the minute I wake up. Everyone does it these days, right????? However, being annoyed with my big bum and the fact that one of my boobs decided to be half a size bigger than the other makes me feel like a horrible feminist and I sense any minute, something resembling a SWAT team wearing Glossier pink boiler suits will storm into my flat saying “DON’T MOVE!!!” while they confiscate my copy of The Beauty Myth. Why can’t I just accept that my body is changing??

Is this a surprise, tho? IS IT??? I’m 34, which means my generation grew up thinking that Bridget Jones was fat. We grew up believing that the no.10 girl in Love Actually was “chubby” (don’t even get me started on that…) and it was ingrained in my brain since I watched my first coming-of-age movie that the best thing that can happen to a girl is a makeover scene. How else would I be the main character? How else would I become the best thing a girl could be: a love interest? When I try looking inside me to find the cause of this uneasiness of not fitting in my old jeans, I realise I am looking in the wrong place: the answer is in our magazine’s shelves, in our streaming service catalogue, in our social media feeds… Nothing we don’t know already, right? And you don’t need to be the sharpest tool in the shed to sense that the process of unlearning all this is going to be a long one. Thank God Neuroplasticity is my word of the year!

When I moved to Edinburgh in 2020 I lost 12 kg in a short period without making any diets. Unemployed and with zero friends, I spent my time aimlessly walking around my new city, drinking coffee. I was happy, but not all the time. Nights were spent being eaten alive by the fear of not being able to find a job before my savings would run out, consumed by both the guilt of having left everything and everyone behind and the excitement of starting over. It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. When my family would let me know over Skype “How good I looked” I would reply: THANKS, IT’S THE ANXIETY!!

2021-2022: old me?

That was also the time I started dating again, after ending an 8-year relationship that I should have ended many years before that. I dyed, straightened, masked, waxed, moisturized, plucked, exfoliated, and dressed like never in my life. It was a full-time job. My Boots Advantage card was having the time of its life. In a period when I didn’t have a lot, my most precious possession was the way I was perceived. The longer and softer my hair, the shorter the waiting time for a reply in the apps. The thinnest my waist, the easiest to find the sexiest lingerie, and be my best self. If the synthetics in Alien had a prime directive that they would follow no matter what, mine was very simple: “Always-be-fuckable.” The world was my playground. Or was I the toy?? No matter the answer, such power was intoxicating. I keep thinking about this quote from this fantastic essay by

Valerie

:

Striving for beauty is all I've ever known; it's my modus operandi and honed skill, and I can't fathom doing anything else. I don't know who I am if I'm not trying to be beautiful. I have an identity and a life outside of it, but it's not entirely satisfying or holistic.

- Am I hot enough for a good life?

When I gained back all the weight I lost during my first two years in Edinburgh, my confidence started to shatter. I felt I had lost everything that would make life easier for me. Did this mean that my pretty privilege was gone? Oh God! Going up from a size 12 to a size 16 got me under this invisibility cloak that meant I was no longer the pretty girl in the room. I didn’t need to, because to begin with, I was now engaged and in love - but when faced with this, I indeed realised I didn’t know who I was if I wasn’t trying to be desirable. I had put so much thought and energy into it, that the minute being seductive stopped being my main job and my tool for survival, I felt completely lost. I attributed my new body not to hormone changes due to my polycystic ovaries, stress eating, or impossible schedules, but to me being lazy. Now I did not only carry more weight but also the guilt of not making enough to get rid of it. Months passed and I started imagining people saying: “She’s married now, she’s given up.” And it just hit me: I have no problem with people I’ve just met…because they have no other versions of Cynthia to compare me with. But with friends, acquaintances, and even co-workers, the fear of maybe one day catching a glimpse of pity in their eyes or overhearing some “she must be going through something” is just terrifying. None of these things have ever happened and I doubt they will ever happen! And still, creeping thoughts that they will debilitate me on a bad day.

Because guess what, in the past, I’ve thought this myself of other girls. BOOM. The circle is complete. There’s a Spanish saying that goes like this: “Se cree el ladrón que todos son de su condición” which means something like: A thief thinks they’re all like him, denoting how easy is to think everyone is like us, especially when it comes to our bad traits like judging others. What was that thing that Gandhi said? Ah yes: The key to stop being so hard on yourself is to stop being a lil bitch.

(This revelation feels very Regina George when she gets fat.)

The funny part is I’ve never felt cooler in my entire life, and this is where it gets confusing to me. I wear the clothes that I like, not the ones that I think will make me look slim or hot. I’ve applied for a writing residency for the first time. I pierced my nose. I’m a Taiko drummer. I’ve quit Instagram. I do stand-up and this newsletter is thriving, babes. Last Sunday, I fulfilled my long-time urge to run a hair clipper through my head in the kitchen of our flat and get rid of almost all my hair. I’ve had healthy conversations with my husband, a man who happens to find confidence, a sense of humour, and, as Bridget would say, “my wobbly bits”, the sexiest things. He also thinks I’m the prettiest girl in the room now and when I’ll be 105 years old. This makes me happy - I wouldn’t have settled for less. And I am mentioning him not to brag, but to illustrate that the people who really love you, the people who really see you, won’t care about your hair being short, long, wrinkles, no wrinkles, bum size 12 or bum size 16 if they know you are ok. A cliché, I know, but why do we still have so much trouble believing it?

In the book I mentioned before, The Beauty Myth, author Naomi Wolf says: “Beauty is the last, best belief system that keeps male dominance intact.”. She also writes: “Women who love themselves are threatening”. That book - mandatory reading, btw!! - was published in 1990, the year I was born. Why is this still relevant, 34 years after? Because shit keeps hitting the fan ON A DAILY BASIS. I feel this anger towards all the companies and systems in place whose only way to make a profit is to make women feel insecure about their faces, hair, and bodies. Self-care is not spending your money on a face mask and two scented candles; self-care is to donate that dress hanging in your wardrobe that seems to scream at you every morning that you had better days. Is being at peace with yourself one of the most rebellious and political things you can do these days? I think so.

Last Sunday after the hair clippers! // Away in Osaka dressed like a 9-year-old.

Grieving your past self when you are shopping for bigger jeans (one of the things I hate MOST in this life right after people Facetiming on public transport) sucks, and I’ve had enough. I am well aware of how much I (we!!) tend to romanticize the past. I remember how amazing it was when my tits seemed to have shrunk and no longer felt heavy, or how easy it was getting dressed most days. Things were just that: easier. It's also easy to remember the good stuff and forget the bad stuff. I often forget that back in the day it was external validation about my looks that kept me alive. In the form of a like on social media, a man I’ve just met giving me lots of attention, or an easy shag after a night out. Tying my self-worth to my physical appearance was honestly, one of the most stupid things I’ve ever done - but at the same time I must remember to be kind to myself: I didn’t know better. I keep learning.

In 2025, I choose cool (the kind, inclusive, nothing-cooler-than-being-yourself type) over pretty. Not because that’s what I’m left with, but because I have - literally - grown out of pretty. When someone feels good and cool it transpires, and sorry marketing guys, but you can’t bottle that - as hard as you try! Today, I decided that I have better things to do than make myself the most desired girl in the room. I’ll keep my Boots card tho. This is not a “Pretty = bad, Interesting = Good!” because fuck that. You do you girl! We are allowed to enjoy expressing ourselves through clothes and make-up, just Please Please Please don’t do it for the validation of others, and don’t let your world crumble if, for some reason, this goes away. Hormone changes, pregnancies, miscarriages, accidents, injuries. Our bodies change, but we will always be fabulous. D'YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN BABES?

This morning, while at the bus stop in Leith, I caught my reflection when the 11 arrived. Dubious and scared at first, I raised my eyes and decided to stare at myself for a few seconds. I saw a woman eager to invite me to her unique, funny, beautiful world. She had kind eyes. Once I decided to give her a chance, I wasn’t able to take my eyes off her. 💖

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