I turned thirty-four on Monday, and I found my beauty again yesterday morning. I stood before the mirror in the bathroom, going through my morning routine before work. Done with brushing my teeth and washing my face, on a whim, I then divested myself of every stitch of clothing before pulling down my hair to comb it out for the morning. As I did, I found something. A few somethings.
I found a sultry tilt to my head as I combed through my mahogany hair, now long again.
I found the seductive tumble and fall of my hair over my shoulders, falling over the left side of my face like Jessica Rabbit’s famous red tresses.
I found the curve from my waist to my hip, not as sharp or hour-glassy as it used to be but still there.
I found the line of my jaw still strong, though I had sworn it was disappearing, much to my chagrin.
I was plainly surprised to find these things, these parts of me–to find me— beautiful, to think myself glorious after months of feeling utterly to the contrary. I was very surprised.
I saw my own beauty.
I found my glorious.
And I smiled at me.