For as long as I can remember, people have complimented my appearance. When I was young, they'd speak as though I wasn't present. "She's so beautiful," they'd tell my mother who'd reply with a barely audible grunt. Compliments were rare in our home, but vanity was the devil itself.
Father did all he could to beat the vanity out of me. At seven years old, he’d sit me down to read classical Jewish texts that reinforced his position on the matter. From Iggeret Haramban in which the 13th-century sage urges his son to practice humility in all his manners, to the Orchos Tzadikkim written by an anonymous author yet considered to be a classical text.
By age 11 it was clear the religious text education was not having the intended effect since I was still combing and parting my hair several times a day in front of the mirror. On three distinct occasions only months apart, Father chopped at my hair with fabric scissors until the last time when there was just a messy boyish cut left behind.
The short hair grew out, eventually, and the comments kept coming. Thinness was a desirable quality that I came by naturally, but this didn't stop people from complimenting me as though I’d done something commendable to achieve it. The same went for my high cheekbones and long neck. My clothes were hand-me-downs that often fit poorly so the compliments meant everything to me as a young teen trying to fit into a world I knew nothing about.
My appearance served for survival when forced to live independently at a young age. I never applied for a job I didn't get. I considered the Beauty Premium an equalizer helping to balance the scales in my favour when so much in my life tipped matters the other way.
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