I have a confession to make. I am not beautiful. A good majority of the time I look in the mirror and I do not like what I see. I’m constantly questioning my self-worth and wondering if I am as ugly as I am often told. I’ll never be the pretty girl, the graceful one who is just so effervescently gorgeous. I can only be me, exuding and radiating confidence simply in order to give the false portrayal that I find myself beautiful. Lately, it’s been a struggle as I found my self-esteem being excruciatingly nit-picked. I realize I don’t have a conventional look about me and I definitely don’t adhere to society’s metric standards of beauty. I have a “unique” haircut, short stature, lots of tattoos, and well-defined muscles. I am damn proud of those muscles as I worked immensely hard for them, but I do understand they are not everyone’s cup of tea and often times provides more fodder for insecure strangers to ridicule. My body functions as a purpose to perform well in a cage and get the job done. Same goes for my hair. Long and luscious locks got in the way. In life, I chose a different route; rather than work for aesthetic I chose to work to be a champion and I dare anyone or anything to impede my path.
Recently, I had a company post photos of me on social media for a specific brand of clothing I was wearing. I broke the first rule of the internet and read the comments people left about me. So many were filled with negativity calling me manly, ugly, disgusting, making fun of my hair and my overall appearance. A lot of people would suggest I ignore it, and another large group of people would have me reply with negative banter of my own (and it is true I all too often spew out quip after retort with an acidic forked-tongue), but I heeded neither party’s advice this time. I chose to take a leaf out of comedienne Sarah Silverman’s book recently and instead, I responded with kindness. When someone decides to leave disparaging remarks on the appearance of a perfect stranger, it says much more about them than about me. I was told my “wig was crooked” and that my “hair was ugly.” Meh. So be it. My attitude is straight forward and my performance on the mats and in the cage is all that matters. I was also told I “looked like a dude” and “have too many muscles.” Honestly, I took that as such a compliment! It has taken me hours of dedicated gym time and several relentless years to build these muscles and man, does functional strength come in handy when you’re actively trying to cause harm to another individual. My punches will have definitive power and my submissions will cause ceaseless pain. If muscles make me manly, then I will proudly rock that moniker with glee. No tears will be shed because a stranger with zero impact on my life chastises my appearance with ugly words.
Although I know not to let these things affect me deep at my core, it’s human nature for us to want to feel attractive. I’m lucky enough to have found someone who tells me everyday how beautiful I am, even when I accurately resemble a waddling potato with expertly coiffed eyebrows. It’s weird to me that strangers feel like they have a right to comment on my appearance or the way I live my life. Recently, I faced this exact situation in a barbershop. Normally, I shave my head at the house, but I decided to treat myself a few weeks ago and go to a local barbershop and let someone else edge my ‘do for me. The woman buzzing my scalp commented on my cauliflower ears and how misshapen they are (ideally, a huge badge of honor for me.) She made an offhand comment about how I probably struggled to “get a man” and that she was sure I probably didn’t want one anyway. Pardon me boo boo, but my man is a world champion and adores every ounce of my appearance; from my chewed-up cauliflower ears to every callous on my mat-worn feet. I don’t think she intended malice with her words, but I do think that sometimes we need to reflect on our thoughts before haphazardly remarking on something so unwarranted.
My hair has garnered many people to make uninvited comparisons, from the lazy analogies to Skrillex or Gary Oldman circa The 5th Element, to the more creative ones such as a Dothraki warrior (my favorite one I’ve heard so far.) However, I like my hair, which I guess is really the most important factor in this scenario. I get black eyes, my fingers are all crooked from training in the gi, I often have mat burn on my face from rigorous training sessions, and my complexion is sorely lacking in the rich melanin I was perpetually tanned with when I lived in Miami. I have freckles, blemishes, scars, and bruises. I’m constantly surrounded by gorgeous women day in and day out and I often feel like I don’t fit in with them in any and every facet of life. I’m different and I accept that. Actually, no. I don’t want to merely accept it, I want to embrace it. Because if I do, no amount of criticism can diminish my self-worth and I hope someone out there relates to this and embraces their own inner beauty as well so that together we can revel in our confidence. We were born an original, so why die as a copy? I may never aspire to be a Beauty Queen, but I am a Wolf Queen, and no ascertainment of attraction level can ever impact my goals to win the title on June 2nd. You can keep your sash and tiara, the only accessory I want adorning my body is a championship belt.
