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The Beauty of Being an Invisible Woman

And having zero eyes on me

Suzanna Quintana
The Virago

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https://unsplash.com/photos/a-man-standing-on-top-of-a-sandy-hill

What a cutie I was at 18, 19, 20.

At least that’s my 56-year-old self’s opinion when I think back to the girl who never failed to make heads swivel in her direction.

That girl spent no less than an hour getting ready for anything — class, party, bar. The mall.

I remember the prep well: dry hair upside down, fluff and spray bangs, gloss on pink shimmer and smack lips, draw on icy blue eyeliner, and brush jet black mascara onto eyelashes before separating with tweezers.

Then came the clothes. It was the 80s, which meant a lot of yellow, white, pink. Scrunched socks. High-top Reeboks. Short shorts to show off Hawaiian Tropic legs. Laura Ashley dress with Chuck Taylors peeking from underneath.

Cute. That was the goal.

Look at me! That was the win.

Every day a superficial quest to draw attention, I bounced around from eye to eye trying to fill the hollow void inside.

I was invisible to no one but myself.

Who was I if not what people — okay, men — looked at?

I was cute. I was pretty. I was hot. I had a nice body. A fine ass. Long blonde hair for fingers to run…

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