- We find solace in beauty. We acclaim the metamorphosis of the caterpillar into a butterfly. And we ,women,like peacocks and butterflies, are doomed with the curse of beauty. It is what is expected from us. It matters little if you’re a lawyer or a hairdresser or running for a president, everything pales in comparison against the symmetry of your face and the roundness of your buttocks. To be pretty is a service we pay for men who get to enjoy the soft touch of our skins while their hairiness and tobacco smell are excused and we’re almost sorry if we don’t fill the specific standards of beauty. They make it seem as if it is a virtue, a merit , and we,out of servility believe that . Servility is of course another trait they praised for us, coyness,blushes and ,coquettishness are all part of the act of fulfulling the role of the desirable woman. But there is nothing meritocratic or virtuous about being pretty or coy or coquettish. Winning at the genetic lottery is not an accomplishment. And for all of this I blame poetry. I blame the stanzas that praise women quientissentially for a beauty they did not account for. Women should not be praised solely for that , they should be acknowledged for ambition ,perseveration,decision-making ,courtesy etc. That’s what we should expect from women and maybe they would spend less time deciding what to wear.
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