Ugly
Title: Ugly
Author: himawarixxsandz
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Ready for a long explanation? LOL, because here it comes.
So, I'm sure all of you have listened/watched 2NE1's Ugly, right? And seriously, if I were to go on about how much I love that song and what it does for me, I'd have an entire fic. So...I just ended up going ahead and writing one. It's really personal, and for a huge part of it, it might seem like just terrible memories and a terrible childhood, but it was nothing like that. It's just. I'm Asian. Chinese Indonesian. So of course, growing up in America isn't always the greatest thing because you get made fun of, you feel out of place, yadda yadda yadda, and even then I couldn't be a pretty Asian girl because my hair was curly, more yadda yadda yadda. I'm sixteen now, so of course I love my own skin and wouldn't change it for the world, but this song is really something that I love. And it's something that made me remember everything I went through in order to be this comfortable and to know, to acknowledge, that as corny as it sounds, there's a lot more that makes a girl pretty than what you first see.
But yeah >///< I hope you guys like this even though it's not really Kpop and it's the first thing I'm posting here that I guess you could consider my original work and all. And don't be afraid to comment even though I'm telling you that it's personal because I'm definitely sure I'm not the only one who likes bemoaning her appearance, LOL. It's a girl thing, right? ^-^
Why am I this ugly?
It’s not fair.
But she knows the world isn’t fair. She knows that life isn’t fair. It’s what her parents say. It’s what her friends and teachers say. It’s what she says to herself, tries to tell herself, but it doesn’t work even though she knows. She knows that there are some children in the world who don’t even have limbs, who don’t have house and food, but right now she doesn’t care.
It doesn’t matter if life isn’t supposed to be fair-if you don’t get to have everything you want, because right now she doesn’t care about a baby somewhere in the world crying because it hasn’t eaten. She doesn’t care.
Not right now, she doesn’t.
Right now she just tugs a brush through unruly curls, tugs and tugs even though it hurts-not bothering to do it gently, not bothering to hold it at the roots so it won’t hurt as much-because it’s pointless anyway. She wants it to hurt. Maybe then all of her hair will fall out and it’ll grow back straight and shiny and thin like her sister’s. Like her best friend’s. Like her classmates’.
What must I do for me to be able to smile brightly like you?
She smiles, bows her head a little, laughs off the compliment and hands the paper and pencil back to him-tells him that the next problem can be done the same way, is even a little easier if he reads carefully, tells him that she’ll help any time, it’s no big deal. He smiles back and walks away to talk with someone else-of course he does-because that’s all she’s good for, right?
Being smart, being good in school, being liked by the teachers, not having to study for tests-it’s useless. It’s so useless. It doesn’t matter if he comes to her for help because in the end, even though she’s the one who helps him get an A on the next quiz, she’s not the one he likes back. He’s not going to like her because he likes the pretty girl in the class who’s good at basketball, who has shiny and straight red hair, who’s not shy, who’s confident, who’s funny, who’s pretty, who has big eyes and a high nose.
He’s not going to like her.
So what’s the point of being smart?
Yeah.
There is none. It’s pointless.
Why can’t I ever be perfect?
She hates her eyes.
She doesn’t even think they can be called eyes because everyone at school always asks her if she can even see with eyes that small. She tells them she can, makes it a joke right back, and they laugh because they see her smiling and of course, if she’s smiling, she thinks it’s funny too, right?
Of course it is. It’s fucking hilarious, so of course she laughs back.
Of course she laughs back. People cry when they laugh too hard, right?
She can’t cry in school-so she laughs.
Don’t look at me
It might not be so bad.
She wouldn’t hate her eyes as much, she thinks, probably not, if she had straight hair. Because that’s supposed to be the compromise, right? That’s what her mother tells her-small eyes, but with straight hair and pale, smooth skin, right? That’s how it should be, and if that’s how it is with her, she wouldn’t hate her eyes so much.
But she can’t even have that. Life won’t even give her that.
So she just laughs it off again when they poke pencils into her ponytail because it’s so curly and thick that they won’t fall out. She just laughs it off when they tell her that her face is so shiny they can see their reflections. They think it’s funny, they think she doesn’t mind, and she’s in school-she can’t cry-crying is pointless-so she just smiles with them.
It’s easier to get tissues from her bedroom anyway.
I want to hide somewhere
It’s when she can’t take it anymore-when she’s staring at herself in the mirror like any other day, getting ready to go out with her family because her parents need to buy a new sofa and then they want to go out for dinner-it’s just like any other weekend night but this time for some reason it’s different because it’s never going to end, she thinks. She’ll look like this forever and no one will ever want her. She’ll be alone, and she’ll have friends, sure, but she can’t look like this forever.
She wonders, just once, what it’d be like to be able to look in a mirror and like what you see. Just once, she wants to be able to reach up and put her hair into a pretty, high ponytail-one that’s shiny and thin and smooth and straight. Just once, she wants to be able to touch her cheek and feel perfect, flawless skin. Just once, she wants to be able to take off her glasses and not have to hide her eyes away.
She can’t do anything about her face and her eyes.
But her hair-she has to do something.
The tears are pouring now and she doesn’t bother to stop them because finally, maybe, her mom will listen this time. Maybe her mom will take her somewhere and get something done because she can’t stand it anymore. She hates this. She hates everything. She just wants it to change. She hates being ugly.
I want to escape
The hairdresser tells her that he can do something to her hair to make it straight-it’ll be straight, and she can come in every few months to keep it that way when her hair starts growing back again at the roots. It’s a little expensive, a little damaging, but she doesn’t care and she tells her mom that-tells her it doesn’t matter that they’re using chemicals that can kill a small animal, that smell like sulfur, that damage her hair, because she hates her hair anyway.
At this point, it doesn’t matter if it hurts her hair, because her hair’s hurt her all her life. If it looks pretty, it doesn’t matter how damaged it really is.
Haircutters and hairdressers are always impressed when they take the scrunchy, the clip, the rubber band, out of her hair. There’s so much hair, they’d say-it’s so thick, they’d laugh-it’s so curly, they’d tell her, and she finishes the last part of the sentence that they either try to brush away or not say at all.
There’s so much, it’s so thick, it’s so curly-for an Asian.
Yeah.
She knows.
She hates it.
Don’t tell me that you can understand me so easily
Her new hair is straight and shiny and slippery and thin just like her sister’s, her best friend’s, her classmates’. It’s not exactly as perfect because their hair is so slippery that they have trouble putting it into a ponytail, into a clip (she hates when they complain about it, hates when they say they wish they had curls), and her hair still stays firm and secure, but that’s okay. It’s straight and shiny and slippery and thin.
That’s good enough for her.
Her eyes are still small, her face is smoother, but she still wishes for more. She still wishes her eyes were big and deep with folds and lashes to put eye-shadow and eyeliner and mascara now that she’s almost in high school. She wishes her cheeks were high and raised for blush. She wishes her chest wasn’t so flat, wishes she was taller, wishes she had curves-wasn’t so skinny.
Sometimes, she knows it’s terrible, but she wishes she wasn’t even Asian.
My ugly and crooked heart may even come to resent you
She won’t take this anymore.
She storms downstairs, trying not to cry because she’s almost in high school and that’s ridiculous. She asks to go shopping, asks this time to go to stores that she’s heard the names of from her classmates-from the pretty girls who play soccer and basketball and flirt with the boys over more than just a math or English problem-she asks this time to be able to pick what she wants because she’s tired of wearing just jeans and t-shirts.
She needs skirts. She wants dresses. She wants tighter shirts-tighter jeans-cardigans and tanktops and brighter colors. She wants shorter shorts and spaghetti straps and different bras and lower underwear. She wants something that’ll make boys think of her as more than a friend-as more than someone to ask for answers to last night’s homework or the workbook page they have to finish in a few minutes.
She wants to be looked at.
I don’t even want your concern
They’re nice to her. Of course they are. It’s a Catholic school and they’ve all been in the same class since they’re ABCs.
And they are nice-they’re cool, they’re friendly, a little awkward because they don’t have much in common, but she likes them. She has no reason not to like them. They aren’t stupid, aren’t mean-they’re pretty smart, pretty nice, and they’re pretty. They’re pretty, they can already talk about boyfriends and kisses and hugs and dating, and she silently listens to them when they get to that part because it’s not like she has much to say.
When they ask her if she likes anyone, giggling and warm and pretty, she just smiles and shrugs it off-shrugs it away, and asks them about the problem number they’re on because she knows that’s all they probably expect of her anyway.
This world is full of lies
She really wants to believe it.
They say it all the time and she really wishes it was true-her parents say it too, her teachers, everyone-and she really wishes that it was true, wishes that there was some proof that she could experience firsthand because right now, so far, she’s convinced that it’s just not true at all. That it’s just made up.
If you’re not pretty, no one’s going to like you.
Whether you’re aiming for friends or boyfriends, it’s always going to be easier if you’re pretty.
She’s not.
All alone
Everyone always says that high school is hell, and if it’s taken her seven years to make friends at this school, then she’s willing to bet that the next four years are going to be empty. She wishes she was pretty even if she’s shy. If she was pretty, at least she would get attention-at least she would get a chance to be noticed so she can try her hand at making friends.
Her closest friends tell her she’s hilarious, she’s crazy, tell her that she can write-she can really write-tell her that she’s witty, that she’s smart, that she’s pretty.
She doesn’t believe them.
Your friends are supposed to tell you that, anyway.
I’m all alone
Her mom tells her the same thing, but she says back that it only works after people get to know her. And that she’s shy, she’s quiet, so it takes them years to know her and at this school, in high school, she’s only got four.
She’s got four years, while it took her seven before.
Her mom says that she’s older now-she knows herself better-four years will be more than plenty now.
She doesn’t believe her.
It’s her mom-moms are supposed to tell you that.
I’m always all alone
Just before high school starts, while summer vacation is still going on, she tries.
She listens to her best friend and tries-logging onto her mom’s computer, still unfamiliar with the website, copy and pastes it in from a Word document. She bites her lip, readying herself for every insult she’ll probably get, and presses clicks the button at the bottom of the entry.
There’s no such thing as warmth
She knows high school is supposed to be fun. It’s supposed to be when most people really start dating, really form friendships that’ll last them a lifetime as her parents prove whenever they go back to Indonesia to reunite with their high school friends that they’ve not only not seen in years, but live halfway around the world as well.
She keeps some of her old friends because she knows she’ll hold onto them as well-they’re the friends that liked her even when her hair was bigger than her head, when her eyes were even smaller and puffier from crying, when her writing was still in notebooks and terrible, when she spent all of her time buried in a book and didn’t even know how to send an email.
She doubts she’ll be able to make new friends in just four years anyway.
Next to my side-there’s not even anyone to embrace me
Her hair is straight, but that’s still it.
She still has glasses because her eyes are too small to wear contacts and she can’t put them on without someone else prying her eyelid apart. Her face still isn’t as smooth as she wants to be. Her eyes are still too tiny. Her cheeks are still flat, her nose still isn’t high, her eyelashes are still too short, her chest is still too flat, she’s still too short.
When she starts high school-
It’s still all pretty much the same.
She didn’t expect different anyway.
And nobody wants to love me
“No, but seriously,” he grins. “Your eyes are awesome-they’re like all chinky and tiny and when you smile, I can’t even see them.”
She tries not to smile-forces her face straight, but that just makes him laugh harder and she ends up laughing too. “Don’t make me laugh, then, you asshole.”
He raises his eyebrows, and pushes her into the wall with his arms outstretched like a twisted sort of bodyguard. She screams and tries to shove him back but he’s too tall-far too tall, although everyone is always taller than her. “Midget,” he says, hugging her.
“I’m all sweaty,” she smiles.
“I don’t care,” he says.
Just like her I wanna be pretty
Eye-smile?
She laughs, covering her mouth with her hand even though she’s home alone, looking through articles on her computer. What the fuck is an eye-smile? Is that like an Asian term that Asians made up to explain that whole disappearing act that happens when an Asian laughs or smiles? Because it’s pretty funny and she’s sure that if she could see herself, the vanishing thing is happening to her right now.
But she clicks on the video anyway.
She stares.
That’s-
Okay-well-that’s-
Odd.
Kind of weird. Unexpected and nice, but kind of weird.
Last time she checked, even though the boy who sits in front of her in class tells her he likes her eyes, she’s still not a big fan about the tiny eyes thing-but in this video-wow-she isn’t sure if he’s a singer or an actor, but on him, that whole disappearing act is kind of attractive. Like, hot. And the girl sitting behind him onstage too-it makes her pretty. That’s weird.
It’s weird, but maybe-maybe the boy who sits in front of her might not be lying after all.
Don’t lie to my face
She looks up from her iPod, meeting her mom’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “No, that’s okay,” she says. “I’m actually just growing it out. Maybe get a haircut when school comes around-my layers are getting kind of icky.”
Her mom turns her head when they reach the red light at the intersection. “Really? Why the sudden change?”
She shrugs. “I have mousse and wax now, so it’s not frizzy. I don’t know. I kind of miss it curly. And I can straighten my bangs with an iron anyway.”
“You used to straighten all of your hair,” her mom says.
“It doesn’t feel like me if it’s straight.” She adjusts her left earplug so it sits better against her ear, and then reaches back to tug at a lock of her hair, twisting it around her finger. “I miss it curly.”
‘Cause I know I’m ugly
She minimizes a window, adding a little bit more to the final paragraph after an idea strikes her, saves it, and then switches back because she hates keeping people waiting, hates not being able to share everything she’s poured into a blank Word document, so she copies and pastes-spacing things out and formatting everything in-and edits what needs to be fixed before pressing that ever-familiar button.
She waits for a bit while it loads, before checking the view to make sure it looks right and proper on the final screen. She scrolls up and down, rereading some parts here and there just to look back on the way things flow-sometimes just to look at it, the contrast of the words on the screen. They’re just words, but she likes to look at them even though she’s not reading them because they’re her own thoughts so of course she wouldn’t read it.
They’re only words, but they still make her smile.
She thinks they’re pretty.