I am beginning to wonder, too, whether I have never bothered with my looks because I have never really felt like I had to. Pretty privilege is a recognised phenomenon that bestows extra advantages on people who are considered attractive according to a very narrow, extremely outdated standard that prioritises eurocentric features and is filtered through the male gaze. By no means do I think of myself as pretty — and it is definitely an awkward choice of word for someone approaching their 40th birthday — but when I look at photos of myself from as little as five years ago, I see clear skin that needs no coverage, eyes that are plenty wide enough without mascara, a lower lip wearing nothing but Carmex. I am no beauty but have I been dishonest with myself in failing to recognise this indifference towards my appearance as a privilege afforded to me by, shall we say, inoffensive features? And where does that leave me now that my hair is greying, lines are appearing on my forehead and my lower lip isn’t as full as it used to be?
