Open Letter To The Dick Who Called Me “Naturally Beautiful” 

woman in red tank top
Photo by Thierry Fillieul on

To The Dick Who Called Me “Naturally Beautiful” on Our First Date,

“Naturally beautiful”? Ummm WTF? Smooth ice breaker. So smooth it made up for when you presumptuously called me “Jackie”, right? Wrong. My name is Jaclyn. And if I am beautiful at all, I am unnaturally beautiful.

Being natural and being beautiful are society’s paradox. Did you not have sisters to teach you that? Or, like, internet? How about TV? What about beauty magazines in grocery checkout aisles? Are you really that naive or are you just intentionally underappreciating all the time and money I invest so society will deem me worthy of going out in public? Excuse me while I go light my balayage-highlighted hair on fire!

You think women are just born with TWO eyebrows like these? I dye these babies to make them look fuller since I don’t have enough hair where my eyebrows should be. Then I wax the perimeter of my brows because I have too much hair where my eyebrows shouldn’t be. Life is funny like that.

And what about my daily Kardashian worship ritual, contouring, where I paint a better-looking face on top of my actual face? Unfortunately, yes, this is the best real-world application of my Fine Arts degree.

And my delicate little hands with nails that make you go “how does she text with those”? Manicures, baby! AKA my weekly ritual where I pay a stranger to cut my cuticles until each one of my nail beds bleeds (although I guess bleeding is technically “natural”).

But what about my smile? Brought to you by bleached veneers. For someone who majored in journalism, you really don’t know how to look beneath the surface.

If I’m overreacting here, it’s because I’m exhausted from keeping up with this beauty facade. I get eyelash extensions just to look awake. Which make it even harder to sleep because the glue is constantly burning my eyeballs.

But did you honestly think that I just happened to lack any distinct body odor? Seriously, grow the fuck up. This scentlessness comes from a dermatologist injecting twenty shots of Botox into each underarm. Four times a year. For the past ten years. Yeah, I’m broke, but on the plus side, my armpits have not aged a day past eighteen.

Does my face look young? I hope so because I’ve never had a cigarette, and I frequently loiter around a middle school playground to inhale the laughter of children.

I hope one day you’ll understand the dedication and witchcraft applied to my unnatural face. But until then, this is goodbye. I need a partner who appreciates that I am sincerely superficial and only superficially sincere. And who knows it’s not okay to call me “Jackie”.



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