My Daughter is Gorgeous, and I Wish She Wasn’t
In retrospect, I’m thankful I was a goofy-looking child.
I got catcalled the other day. My walking companion and I passed by a man, who may have been in his 30s and who may have been drunk at 2-something p.m. He brightened up considerably as we passed, let out a low whistle, and said something about “fine young ladies.”
I found catcalls in my 20s and 30s annoying, at best; the rare catcall in my 40s is simply amusing. But this time, I wasn’t laughing.
This time, my walking companion was my nine-year-old daughter.
She doesn’t look nine years old. Most people guess at least 12. With warm brown skin and shiny ringlets that shoot and cascade from her head like a fountain, she looks like the stunning young multiracial woman who is ubiquitous in stock photos but less frequently spotted in the wild. (Not too dissimilar from the harried stock photo mom who is inexplicably wearing a crisp, white button-down and has found time to get her nails done.)
Through no fault of her own, my daughter is hurtling toward womanhood too fast for my comfort, and I find myself faced with the thankless task of teaching her the burden that comes with beauty, particularly at such a young age.
