For My Own/(Others) Insecurities 

To The Little Ones Who Struggle With Self Image Issues. 

We Are Imperfect Yet Special:

I am a boyish girl. I have my late dad’s jawline and a little of his features at the side. To make it “smaller and more feminine” would mean going under the knife to remove part of my bone—something I am terrified of. My eyes get comments that they are “slit”—narrow and small. It feels worse when I wake up in the morning, feel bored, or feel tired. They look half asleep. My body is naturally tanned. My hair is shorter than most boys’. Sometimes I get mistaken for a “he,” and most people find me very “bro”—a term for “brother” on our sunny island, Singapore.

My late grandfather, who used to worry about me, once commented that I should keep my hair long. Oddly, I looked for ready-made hair buns and ordered them, but I’m not sure how to use them. They look like a bird’s nest. However, the moment I style my hair to cover that jawline, I look a little more like a “she.” Then I don’t feel like a boy with lipstick. Or a boy with pearl earrings. My parents always wanted a boy, so I suppose I am the best of both worlds. The beauty standard of highly photoshopped individuals looking perfect and neat sometimes scares me. Do I need to spray myself tanned like orange, sun-kissed skin? Or make myself pale with the latest Korean spray, all the way up to my armpits? My boobs don’t seem perfectly balanced, and I wonder if it’s the same for most people. They don’t look like the round half-oranges you see in push-up ads. I am mostly Maybelline: not born with it. Occasionally, I look at others and notice what I lack—out of curiosity, not so much envy. I’m close to my 40s, yet this insecurity still creeps in. Sometimes it is loud. Sometimes it is not.

My headshot needs many takes—a real challenge for most photographers. As a kid, when I played sports, my anxious mum worried that I might hurt the boys. My hair is curly and often needs a trim; otherwise, I don’t know what to do with it. To keep it long, I need to have it straightened at the salon for hours, like a long plane ride. The kids I teach look at K-pop and influencers the way I used to stare at magazine covers. I hope they don’t end up like me, feeling insecure about their bodies. The need for full control. The need to cut their eyelids to feel perfect. The need to fit a certain mould to feel good. There are some who accept who I am, and I am grateful for them. Most of us don’t say, “I like your soul,” and impression counts. My late dad even once asked if I was gay. No, I am not. He had a theory that when women reach a certain age, some hormonal imbalance makes them act strangely—suggesting something not too healthy. I have a theory that I am creepy and unusual and not following the “norms.” In the end, I think everyone else is taken, and we should just be ourselves.