Brianna Parkins: I’m not ugly, I’m just not pretty full-time

Irish women are masters of the backhanded compliment. We learn it from our mothers. “That’s a lovely top, what are you going to wear on the bottom?” sounds innocent enough until it’s directed at the dress you intend to wear out. I would rather someone straight up insult me by saying “that dress is short enough to show everyone you got your money’s worth with the laser hair removal” than face the confusing sting of a nice-nasty compliment. The kind that leaves you paralysed deciding, “Was that an innocent remark or was that a pointed criticism?” If it was the former, why did it make me feel bad and replay the conversation in my head on the bus home?

Once at an arty-farty event, a writer I admired struck up a conversation. This was a lucky development for me because I engage with professional networking with the same grace as Prince Andrew in a Newsnight interview and tend to hide away. I was delighted to meet her until she said, “Well you look much prettier in real life than your Twitter profile”.

Was that an insult? A compliment would have been “you look nice” or “I like your outfit” or just simply “I know you exist and have read some of your work”. Telling someone, “Wow, you are less ugly than I expected” is not a compliment.

Why did she, a feminist commentator, think I would be interested in hearing if I was pretty or not? Or expect that the social media profile I use primarily for work would have to be pretty?

I don’t know what’s worse – people assuming you have the facial symmetry of a dropped spice-bag from photos and being pleasantly surprised in real life, or turning up looking worse than your photos.

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This writer had essentially accused me of being a sort of reverse catfish. The question is why did she, a feminist commentator, think I would be interested in hearing if I was pretty or not? Or expect that the social media profile I use primarily for work would have to be pretty?

Being pretty is not my job. It’s not even a hobby of mine. Occasionally I decide I’m going to get really into make-up, and put different shades of brown on bits of face that all end up one muddy mess before I give up. That doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate or delegitimise women who enjoy it, especially those who make those soothing “how-to” videos I like to watch but can’t execute. I’m just not good at it.

I went through what a kind person would call “an awkward stage” for most of my childhood and teenage years. More than one adult took it upon themselves to tell me “you might not be the pretty one but at least you’re the smart one”, “looks aren’t everything”, or “we can’t all be beautiful”. For context, I grew up surrounded by very attractive people in a country where beauty standards were set by the blond-haired and blue-eyed poster surfers of Home and Away.

I am not naive to this. I have worked in commercial television. I have blamed the way I look for career setbacks

I wasn’t too upset by this news. I wouldn’t have to worry about being pretty, and could take up other interests instead. It was like being told I didn’t make the cricket team but I was in the starting squad for tag rugby. Fair enough. I battered on thinking I would not have to “perform” pretty.

But that’s not how the world works. Research shows that pretty privilege exists, people treat us according to what we look like and it affects all aspects of our lives, particularly women. In 2022 the Economist found that “it is economically rational for ambitious women to try as hard as possible to be thin. That is a tragedy.”

I am not naive to this. I have worked in commercial television. I have blamed the way I look for career setbacks. I am vulnerable as I get older to holding skin back on my face to see what I would look like with a facelift, singing a forlorn rendition of Forever Young to myself in the mirror.

It can get on top of all of us at some point. Men too. But there is a certain joy in not giving a rat’s arse about what you look like and freeing up brain space for other things. I’m not ugly, I’m just not pretty full-time. I’m a part-timer; the rest of the time I dress like a busy mum watching various kids sports on pitches except I don’t have any kids. I just enjoy swishy long puffer jackets, leggings, bobble hats, fleecy zips and an old pair of horse-riding boots.

People monitor women’s appearances for decline. One of the phrases I find most fascinating is “She really let herself go.” Go where? Happiness? Confidence? Comfort? The craft shop because she has more time for hobbies? That sounds really nice actually.