THE PRICE OF BEAUTY
By Suzie de Aguado

I used to think of myself as a pretty girl. Long, dark hair reaching below my breasts; smooth skin, supple to the touch; meaty lips covered in frosted hues of tint; a thin frame held into place with strong limbs, pulled and stretched by years of dance. I had my share of physical defects as all people do, but managed a fine job of polishing (er...covering up) the roughened exteriors as most women do: with tricks of the trade.

TRICK (‘trik) 1³: a crafty procedure or practice meant to deceive or defraud. (Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary).

Our dear, close, personal friends over at Merriam-Webster’s also included a definition, which my eyes feasted upon (after having skimmed through such synonyms as RUSE, WILE AND FEINT) and, is, as a matter of fact, a meaning that I have grown rather fond of:
3³: a quick or artful way of getting a result.

Friendship is a glorious thing.

So, I wore a little make-up. Just the essentials, mind you. Powder and liquid foundation to even-out my skin imperfections; eyeliner, mascara and eyebrow pencil to define my eyes; peach-colored rouge to give me that natural glow. And let’s not forget a lipstick kit, which included such finery that it could make Woody Allen’s lips appear as luscious as mine always did.

So, I straightened my naturally wavy, somewhat frizzy hair. Okay, so it took an hour a day to style but heck, it looked good. So, I covered up the beginning stages of varicose veins and cellulite with leggings and long pants. So what? I was a pretty girl, darn it!

I had lived in LA and New York so, naturally, not only was I hip and trendy, I was a woman who was well trained in the fine art of staying attractive. I avoided harsh lighting (a diabolical invention), unfiltered water systems (a subtle torture device, which slowly destroys hair flexibility and strength...a real killer) and stayed within air-conditioned climates during hot periods of the year because don’t you know that heat and humidity can ruin beauty faster than time can.

I was happy, I think. I had my routines and beauty essentials and yes, oh yes, I do believe I was happy.
Well, I was happy with the girl I saw staring back at me in the mirror. But, inwardly, I was far from feeling jolly. Big cities, big problems, you know. Smog, noise, traffic jams, high crime rates, blah, blah, blah. Living within the bellies of such monstrous cities caused havoc on everyday life and stress was omnipresent.

Through the hustle and bustle of city-life, my husband was offered a job in Puerto Vallarta. I had never really considered living in a tropical climate. I was a city girl, after all and not a naturally bred beach bunny happy to frolic in the sun and sand. But, we’re gonna find quality of life, we said. We’re gonna have a nice, quiet life and say to hell with all of this stress. And, so, we moved and settled and dwelled amongst a piece of heaven right here in Puerto Vallarta.

It is lovely. It is charming. Its overwhelming comeliness dazzles me and I am happy as I walk down the beaches and admire the beauty. And I am happy as I listen to the leaves flutter in the breeze. And I am happy as I regard another unforgettable sunset by the warmth of my husband’s embrace. And I hate myself when I look in the mirror.

Where is that girl I used to see staring back at me? I haven’t seen her for over a year and I haven’t a clue as to where she is. She has been replaced with someone I don’t entirely recognize and even though this new chick is nice, she is, in my opinion, far from pretty.

You see, she’s got this hair. It frizzes an awful lot and has suffered the damage of unfiltered water. It is dull and suffocates under the bondage of a tightly woven bun. Her skin is oily and frequently hosts large, sweltering zits. She hardly wears any make-up because, she says, what’s the use? The heat and humidity wipe it off in a matter of minutes anyway. So her lips go unfrosted and her eyes undefined and her legs display the beginnings of cellulite and varicose veins because long pants are too unbearable to don. She is a beauty disaster.

I’ve tried everything to make her look more appealing. I’ve had loads of parcels filled with Aveeda, Clinique and MAC products shipped in to replace the vision of what I see in the mirror. But nothing works. The weather is more powerful than anything money can buy and not only tramples upon the tricks of the trade, it scorches them into oblivion.

In addition to this frustration, I have all but depleted my husband’s hard-earned bank account in my quest for beauty remedies. And...I stink. A city girl isn’t meant to sweat so much, you know. A city girl is meant to grapple with life sheltered under the consistent hum of a carefully marked central air system.

I haven’t found even a remote cure to ward off the frizzies, the eau-de-stink nor the oily, porous, zit-festered skin, but I have learned a few things which I consider valuable over the past year.

I have learned how to take two-hour lunches and enjoy them seated on my terrace, where I can listen to the trill of songbirds and regard the palm trees and flowers. I have learned how to inhale fresh air and exercise regularly. I have learned how to relax and take long walks. Okay, so I miss that girl that used to stare at me from the mirror and I beg you, if you happen to find her, give me a holler. In the meanwhile, however, I will sit in peace and live amongst the beauty in which I dwell.

I am happy here, even if my looks have taken a leave of absence. I consider it just a small price to pay...for beauty.