tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56898659065132259492024-03-18T06:47:37.902-04:00Beauty, and What It MeansAutumn Whitefield-Madranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03379314479257695986noreply@blogger.comBlogger480125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5689865906513225949.post-3145767870570972932016-02-03T18:51:00.000-05:002016-02-03T18:51:29.110-05:00I've Moved!<br />
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I've moved! The Beheld is now a part of my more comprehensive site, <a href="http://autumnwhitefieldmadrano.com/">autumnwhitefieldmadrano.com</a>, which also has information on my book, <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Face-Value-Hidden-Beauty-Shapes/dp/1476754004/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1454518123&sr=1-2&keywords=face+value">Face Value: The Hidden Ways Beauty Shapes Women's Lives</a></i>.<br />
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<b><span style="color: #274e13;">The URL the-beheld.com should direct you to the new site seamlessly. But if you've put the blogspot address into your RSS feed, you should take a second and redirect it to <a href="http://the-beheld.com/">the-beheld.com</a>, which is now hosted on Squarespace. All new blog posts will be posted there, though I'll keep this Blogspot site open for archival purposes.</span></b><br />
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My main reason for switching from Blogspot to Squarespace is the commenting system: The spam filters at Blogspot are terrible, and I hated having to put restrictions on who could and couldn't post comments. Squarespace seems to be better at filtering out spammers, so hopefully you can comment there with ease, and anonymously if you so desire. I also needed to create an author site, so this went hand in hand with that.<br />
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Nothing else has changed! I admit I'll miss the clunky aesthetics of this space. It's a reflection of how I see myself as a beauty commenter, in a way—an outsider with the tools to participate, but not the sleek wrapping. I dearly needed an upgrade to my site, so I did one. But that ethos—a little rough around the edges, and utterly sincere—remains.Autumn Whitefield-Madranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03379314479257695986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5689865906513225949.post-48672182781297001172016-02-03T11:11:00.000-05:002016-02-03T11:11:19.514-05:00Men's Fashion, Eugenics, and Cultural Capital<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Members of the Men's Dress Reform Party, 1937.</div>
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Here’s a party whose caucus I’d love to watch: The Men’s Dress Reform Party. While researching the history of men and makeup, I ran across <a href="http://www.stuffmomnevertoldyou.com/blog/fashion-history-mens-dress-reform-party-1929-to-1940/">a mention</a> of this odd-duck British party in the 1930s whose sole purpose was to agitate for loosened clothing restrictions on men. They paraded about in shorts, open-collared shirts, and color-coordinated socks; if a member wore a tie, he might fasten it inches below his Adam’s apple.<br /><br />The idea was that the dark, heavy clothes men were expected to wear were unhygienic (it was difficult to wash a suit before widely available dry cleaning—indeed, that’s part of why suits are traditionally dark, to mask dirt), and ugly to boot (we’ll get to that). Men’s clothing was a health hazard, they claimed, which fell into line with its parent organization, The New Health Society, a group devoted to educating people about nutrition, “intestinal stasis,” and “helio-hygiene.” (I visualize them as a predecessor to Gwyneth’s Goop team.) So they fought back, urging employers to let workers wear freer dress, organizing ersatz holidays in which men were to wear whatever they pleased, and throwing rallies at which members were instructed to “Come as you are and feel your best,” which for some meant togas, for others singlets and jeans, and for H.G. Wells, meant “ordinary evening dress.”<div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Western Argus,</i> Kalgoorlie, Australia, July 14, 1931</span></div>
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<br />It seems odd at first that this would be an organized group instead of a looser assemblage, but its goals were political. They’d seen how women had begun to fling off repressive roles, a movement reflected in their clothes; why not do the same for masculinity? J.C. Flügel, an influential psychologist at the time and a proud MDRP member, claimed that the institutionalization of the suit had led to a <a href="https://books.google.com/books?id=-_dcFPADSCwC&pg=PA65&lpg=PA65&dq=%22a+remarkable+repression+of+narcissism+among+men%22&source=bl&ots=26FhZdtg8W&sig=O8SyEUBnq2jayAHGzs5_N1byVMM&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjs4aXZ-dvKAhWEzoMKHRypDWgQ6AEIHDAA#v=onepage&q=%22a%20remarkable%20repression%20of%20narcissism%20among%20men%22&f=false">“a remarkable repression of Narcissism among men,”</a> which he saw as undesirable, as it left all the fun of self-ornamentation to women. Unleashing men’s sartorial fancy, he argued, would loosen their superego, the restrictive, repressive force in the human psyche—which would ultimately lead to greater freedom.<br /><br />What’s interesting about the MDRP is its split between a vision that even today seems progressive (a lessened emphasis on traditional masculinity) and a cause that seems abhorrent. Part of the MDRP’s cause revolved around eugenics: If the “right” men were to showcase their appearance, they would be more attractive to the “right” women, and more “right” babies (that is, white babies born into the professional class) would be created. Eugenics was widely accepted in mainstream science and medicine then, but even contextualized, it’s clearly troublesome for all sorts of reasons, with fascism topping the list. Yet even within this odious framework, I appreciate their commitment to at least thinking through the evolutionary logistics. Evolution is often cited as a reason women wear makeup: It’s ornamentation that catches the eye of potential mates. It’s a perfectly fine theory until you question why it’s women, and not men, who wear makeup (for the most part), when both sexes have an evolutionary need to attract the other. So the MDRP’s eugenics mission was wrongheaded, but at least it bothered to be <i>consistent</i> with its own internal logic and wasn’t just cherry-picking its theories to justify a sexist vision.<br /><br />Eugenics is tied to class, not just race, and the MDRP has an interesting fabric here too. The party claimed to be for people of all classes, but the fact was that most of its members were middle- and upper-class, and that they weren’t advocating for more <i>accessible</i> clothes, but more fashionable ones. (In fact, clothes were about to become way more accessible, with the invention of fabrics that invited ready-to-wear clothes—which actually wound up accomplishing the MDRP’s goals, even though they had nothing to do with it.) But the MDRP’s biggest reinforcement of class is something that’s familiar today. The suit that the MDRP was fighting against was the very thing their grandfathers had fought <i>for</i>: a uniform of sorts that would theoretically allow for meritocracy to flourish, since it was more difficult to display wealth through the suit as opposed to the ruffles of the aristocracy. The ruffles were seen as oppressive; eventually, the suit that replaced it became seen as the same.<br /><br />Today it would look like the MDRP’s vision has won out, at least in America (though remember, the MDRP was British) with leisurewear accepted in plenty of professional workplaces and shorts no longer seen as the province of little boys. But the suit remains, and it remains as a symbol of class. Most of the time I see a man in a suit, he’s either in the upper echelons of certain professional worlds (financiers, government officials), or he’s in a position of servitude (security, hospitality). By agitating for the loss of the suit, the Men’s Dress Reform Party wanted to revert to the days of male self-ornamentation as a display of cultural capital. The suit remains, albeit changed—and changed in a way that has shifted its meaning to be about a display of, not an eradication of, cultural capital. In that way, regardless of the MDRP’s place as a mere footnote in history, they were unexpectedly successful.</div>
Autumn Whitefield-Madranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03379314479257695986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5689865906513225949.post-36682452105078624442016-01-21T10:14:00.000-05:002016-01-21T10:14:03.400-05:00The Mile-Long Club: The Luxury of Eyelashes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">False eyelash patent, 1911.</span></b></div>
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When I first heard about eyelash extensions, I threw it into the bin of Things I Would Never Do, along with Vajazzling and placenta facials. But when it came time to take my author photo—which will probably serve as the definitive photo of me, Internetwise, for quite possibly the rest of my life—laying on my back for an hour and a half to have my eyelashes individually extended seemed utterly reasonable. I wanted to look my best, but still wanted to look like <i>me</i>; emphasizing my eyes without wearing more dramatic makeup than I’d normally wear seemed like a good way to do that. It got me thinking about eyelashes—before getting eyelash extensions, I didn’t understand their importance. I don’t know how many studies I’ve read that say that the number-one must-wear cosmetic women cite as essential is mascara. There was something there, and there has been for centuries.<div>
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<li><b>Latisse isn’t the first eyelash-growth treatment out there. </b>A partial list of treatments used throughout history to amp up eyelash growth: white wine, mint, lavender vinegar, glycerine, “fluid extract of jaborandi” (an herb that is now used to make prescription glaucoma medicine), red vaseline, a mixture of cornflower and chervil, quinine, almond oil, kohl (personally recommended by the prophet Mohammed), Spanish fly, and myrtle extract, most of which may be applied to the lashes with “a tiny camel’s-hair paint-brush.”<br /></li>
<li><b>Nor are false eyelashes themselves particularly new. </b>In 1911, an Ottawa woman filed <a href="https://www.google.com/patents/US994619">the first patent for false eyelashes</a>, which don’t look all that different from any strip of false eyelashes you might buy at a drugstore. (Her invention was cited in a toupee patent 43 years later, as well as numerous fake eyelash patents, so she was onto something.) D.W. Griffith is often credited with creating them in 1916, but while he did <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2013/01/20/magazine/who-made-those-false-eyelashes.html?_r=0">order a wigmaker</a> to improvise a set of them while filming <i>Intolerance</i>, he wasn’t the first. Either way, the patent was decidedly less dramatic than the process described in a British newspaper in 1899, in which the eyelid was rubbed with cocaine, then threaded through with the client’s own hair.<br /></li>
<li><b>People used to clip their eyelashes. </b>The (erroneous) idea is from the same school of thought that sees parents shaving the heads of their daughters in an effort to make the hair grow back thicker and fuller. It doesn’t work that way, but magazines from the 1890s advise that lashes be “clipped with the scissors once in every five or six weeks, which is all the treatment they require to make them long and curved” (<i>Current Literature: A Magazine of Contemporary Record</i>, 1896). Not that people needed the advice, for “every mother knows that she has only to clip her baby’s eyelashes while it sleeps, and continue the process during its childhood, to render them as long and luxuriant as Circassian’s” (<i>Ballou’s Monthly Magazine</i>, 1872). Other sources recommend eyelash trims, but for hygienic reasons; apparently 120 years ago people were getting all sorts of things wrapped up in their eyelashes. (Incidentally, this actually does happen with eyelash extensions. My lashes have been collecting detritus for weeks.)<br /></li>
<li><b>We’ve been darkening our eyelashes for a while. </b>You already know about ancient Egyptians and kohl, I’m guessing. Women in parts of Asia used elderberry juice to tint their lashes, as well as ashes from cork or incense. In Europe, India ink, gum arabic, and rosewater was recommended for a black hue; light-haired women were steered toward a mixture of red wine, salt, iron sulphate, a mass of oak chemically distorted by a wash, and French brandy. Basically, anything dark would do—frankincense, resin, plain old soot if you were desperate, mixed with something to make it stick. Once petroleum jelly came along, women started using it to give the appearance of thicker, glossier lashes, but the first commercial mascaras didn’t come about until the 1860s, with Maybelline mascara—a mixture of coal and petroleum jelly, and the first mascara in the States—being developed in 1913.<br /></li>
<li><b>Like every other aspect of beauty, the quest for luxuriant tells a deeper story. </b>Because human history has such a rich history of attempting to lengthen and darken the lashes, it’s tempting to say that eyelashes are one of those things that has been valued for their beauty regardless of time or place. That’s not quite true, though: In medieval and early Renaissance Europe, lashes were considered unimportant, even ugly—they detracted from the forehead, that most beautiful of features (or so said the mores of the time). Women removed their lashes and brows to give the forehead its full due.<br /><br />Still, luxe lashes aren’t a new invention of the beauty industry—women and men have indeed been thickening and darkening theirs since antiquity. But one period in particular stands out here. Many of the odd potions I’ve listed above—chervil for growth, red wine for color—were concocted in late 19th century Europe. Two other crazes were sweeping Europe at the same time: Orientalism, and physiognomy. Europeans became fascinated with the East, “othering” Asian society and rendering cultural practices impossibly exotic, the people full of mystery and secrets. The beauty rites of the East (including the “near East,” or the Caucauses, hence the mention of the eyelash trimming of the Carcassians) were a perfect example of this “mystery.” It intersected perfectly with <a href="https://books.google.com/books?id=DxcFAQAAIAAJ&pg=PA969&dq=eyelashes+beauty&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwj6wIXexpXKAhUL1B4KHQvOAxgQ6AEIXDAI#v=onepage&q=eyelashes&f=false">physiognomy</a>, the pseudoscience of reading people’s personalities through their faces. The “best-developed” fringe belonged to “the aesthetic and artistic classes”; long lashes could indicate shyness and timidity, or secretiveness, indicating that “their owner is too shy or too timid to be perfectly frank and outspoken.” Short lashes were for blunt, rude folks. They’re also “effective agents in love-making and coquetry,” which circles back to Orientalism. Women of the East were (and still are) seen as having an exotic sexuality; borrowing their eyelash hygiene was a way women of the West could borrow that appeal. <br /><br />Eyelashes were particularly well-suited to physiognomy’s claims. Regardless of whether long lashes actually indicate a demure or coquettish demeanor, the fact is that if someone is peering at you through a thick fringe, you feel a sense of secretiveness: There’s a barrier there, one that separates eyes, those famous truth-tellers, from others who might discern how much truth is actually being told. </li>
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All this is to say: <b><span style="color: #274e13;">I don’t regret getting eyelash extensions, even as the process of getting them made me feel incredibly high-maintenance.</span></b> Which is appropriate: They <i>are</i> high-maintenance, quite literally, in that they require maintenance. You can’t use oil-based makeup remover; you can’t let water stream down your face; you can’t sleep on your side (my solution here was to just sleep with my head on the pillow but my face off of it). No rubbing, no tugging, and you have to separate them every day with a mascara-less mascara wand, or else they’ll get all tangled up. (Finding a down feather wound between my false eyelashes from my pillow is probably my lifetime height of Luxury Problems—indeed, perhaps my lifetime height of luxury.)</div>
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<br />I can’t say I’ll shell out for them again; I think of myself as far too practical to do so for any reason other than having a public photo taken. But I have an easy justification in case I do decide to re-up: <b><span style="color: #274e13;">Eyelash extensions, in some ways, <i>are</i> practical. </span></b>I found myself not “needing” eye makeup on most days, only wearing it to punch things up a bit. Normally I wear eyeliner and mascara every day, largely because it makes me look more like I look in my mind’s eye. But it’s not like my mind’s eye sees myself <i>wearing eyeliner</i>; it sees me with my eyes more emphasized, more prominent in my facial composition than they actually are. Eyelash extensions did that. (It’s also difficult to apply eyeliner when you’re working around these 9-millimeter spider legs.) Even with the maintenance, it actually saved me time in the morning, this “natural” emphasis made possible by a completely fake creation. It didn’t save me money—eyelash extensions run a little more than $100 and last around a month—but for a short-term proposition it was worth it, and if I had more disposable income I might consider getting them more regularly. Barring that, I’ll just rub my eyelids with cocaine, thread a needle with my own hair, and hope for the best.</div>
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Autumn Whitefield-Madranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03379314479257695986noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5689865906513225949.post-34778526900473640032016-01-06T12:30:00.000-05:002016-01-06T12:30:39.475-05:00On Beauty Tips and Morality<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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You've undoubtedly heard the Audrey Hepburn mini-essay she composed when asked for her beauty tips. It begins, "For attractive lips, speak words of kindness," and goes on in that vein ("For beautiful hair, let a child run his or her fingers through it once a day"), culminating with "The beauty of a woman grows with the passing years. You can <a href="http://www.snopes.com/glurge/beautytips.asp">read the whole thing here</a>, along with a right honorable debunking of the idea that Audrey Hepburn penned it. (She didn't, nor did she ever claim to, but she did recite it often; in fact, it was penned by a Borscht Belt comic.)</div>
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Certainly the idea that beauty is goodness isn't a new one; for much of history, we've equated beauty with moral goodness, the idea being that what is beautiful is good, and vice versa. But still, I was surprised to run across what basically functions as a precursor to "Hepburn's" quote, in a collection of household recipes and life tips from 1869:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiQtP1_p5jp0AgvmPxG8Eaclmvs_p9ND0eKZ6rSipc0wznP6iGPl0xRSG_hbDEdpElishkk0p-jhd7rMR9bpmCv1-Nd4G6Ugcw-kbO4dHHI5NcxXUKCAq1m8w8P3SJUJGP7lNDcxLnSQIa/s1600/the-beheld_young-lady%2527s-toilette.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiQtP1_p5jp0AgvmPxG8Eaclmvs_p9ND0eKZ6rSipc0wznP6iGPl0xRSG_hbDEdpElishkk0p-jhd7rMR9bpmCv1-Nd4G6Ugcw-kbO4dHHI5NcxXUKCAq1m8w8P3SJUJGP7lNDcxLnSQIa/s400/the-beheld_young-lady%2527s-toilette.jpg" width="382" /></a></div>
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(If that's too small, <a href="https://books.google.com/books?id=K7zzJQ0r7XMC&pg=PA226&dq=eyelashes&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjZk9u5xpXKAhWB7R4KHZglCnc4FBDoAQhjMAk#v=snippet&q=%22the%20young%20lady's%20toilette%22&f=false">here's a link to the original</a>.)</div>
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The book this is from, fancifully titled "Enquire Within Upon Everything," was a sort of 1860s lifehacking guide, instructing readers on everything from vegetable pickling, making wax leaf impressions, and stain removal to card games and social dance moves (if you want to improve your valse à deux, look no further). It dispenses morsels of moral wisdom throughout, but still this bit on "The Young Lady's Toilette" seems a hair random. In short, it's a more poetic version of the "speak words of kindness" bit. To wit: "Truth—Fine Lip-Salve: Use daily for our lips this precious dye, They'll redden, and breathe sweet melody." This bit of verse is surrounded by recipes that constitute "real" beauty tips—recipes for hair dye and facial milks—making it read, to this modern viewer, a bit flip, like, "Yeah, yeah, be <i>good </i>and all,<i> </i>but then do the real nitty-gritty."</div>
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I'm not going to get into the "what is beautiful is good" thing here, at least not right now—philosophers have been trying to determine its truth for centuries and we still flip-flop all over the place on it—but it is interesting to me to have a bit of evidence that we have a long history of trying to inject morality into what's otherwise a pretty straightforward collection of beauty advice. Victorian-era morality reinforced this, of course, but <b><span style="color: #274e13;">we're still eager to ameliorate the equation of beauty and vanity with that of beauty and goodness. But we're not particularly eager to <i>replace</i> the former equation with the latter. </span></b>Cynically speaking, there's profit to be made from keeping vanity at the fore; if beauty is only goodness, what happens to Maybelline? </div>
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But less cynically speaking, if we <i>did</i> allow ourselves to believe that what is beautiful is good, we'd be cutting off a source of entertainment—which is what so much of beauty culture is, particularly when its adherents manage to rob it of wrist-smacking. Beauty-as-goodness might seem like it's a relief of the beauty imperative, but what's more wrist-smacking than the idea that you'd be prettier if only you were a better human?</div>
Autumn Whitefield-Madranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03379314479257695986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5689865906513225949.post-56164206284163522332015-12-18T11:11:00.000-05:002015-12-18T11:25:46.464-05:00Money I Regret Spending<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">You can barely see the regrettable highlights in New York State's latest license iteration. But trust me, they're there. (Seriously, my friends always double-take when they see my license and ask if it's really me. It's, like, droid me.)</span></div>
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It wasn't until I read <a href="http://qz.com/571151/the-mast-brothers-fooled-the-world-into-buying-crappy-hipster-chocolate-for-10-a-bar/?utm_source=atlfb">this takedown article</a> about Mast Brothers chocolate—the $10 bars from a duo of bearded chocolatiers that is ubiquitous at the checkouts of hipster food outlets—that I realized that pretty much all of the money I definitively regret spending is money I spent on vanity.<br />
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But first: Mast Brothers. I am a chocolate lover—specifically a lover of chocolate, not chocolate flavor, in that chocolate ice cream, candies, cakes, cookies, etc., do little for me, but give me a good chocolate bar and I'll think fondly of you forever and ever. That said, I'm not a snob about it, and as long as a bar is at least of Lindt quality (that is, quality chocolate but not like the top-notch stuff), I'm happy. But every so often I can't help but get a ridiculously expensive bar, which I manage to savor like all the magazines say you should, and I feel like a decadent queen the whole time. <br />
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Mast Brothers was one of those bars. The packaging was cool (though not beautiful; distinctly "cool," i.e. hipster chocolate), and I'd heard enough about them to know they had a good reputation. But $10 later I was underwhelmed. Was it decent chocolate? Sure! Was it good? I guess, insofar as it was at least of Lindt quality, but not appreciably better, and I felt swindled. Swindled! I have not made the mistake since. Also, I discovered Milka, which is probably of lesser quality than even Lindt, but—I mentioned I'm not a snob, right?—it's MILK CHOCOLATE, which is the best chocolate.<br />
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Anyway. I remember regretting that $10, but since I like to think of myself as a savvy consumer, I like to forget my financial regrets until I'm reminded of them. But when I saw that article, I was like, "I WANT MY TEN DOLLARS BACK, RICK," which made me think about the other times I've instantly, and distinctively, regretted spending money—and found that while I'm certain there are plenty of other purchases I regret making, the only ones that stick in my craw (besides that waste of a cacao bean) were all beauty-related:<br />
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<li><b>Highlights, $200. </b>It was 2002, I was still new to short hair, and I thought I wanted to be "edgy." I initially wanted blue hair, actually, but this was before normal people could really sport blue hair, and every hairdresser I went to was like, Woman, don't dye your hair blue. (I have an exceedingly pedestrian look otherwise, so it indeed would've been a mismatch visually.) I settled on highlights, and I knew enough to go to a good place that I'd been to before for cuts and trusted. The highlights were blonde and it looked like I'd scattered straw over my head. The worst part is that I went to the DMV later that day to have my driver's license picture taken. It is nearly 14 years later and the representative government-issued image of me shows me looking nothing like myself. </li>
<li><b>Pedicure, $18.</b> I do like pedicures in general (though I haven't gotten one since <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2015/05/10/nyregion/at-nail-salons-in-nyc-manicurists-are-underpaid-and-unprotected.html?_r=0">the Times exposé about labor abuses</a> came out). But in 2010 or so, I got a pedicure and thought, This time I'm gonna go all the way, "all the way" meaning get the calluses razored off instead of merely sloughed. It took me two weeks to walk without pain, like the little mermaid in Hans Christian Andersen's original tale. Your calluses are there because your feet need them to support the weight of a fully grown adult! Do not get your calluses razored!</li>
<li><b>Moisturizer for mature skin, $56. </b>I'm 39, and I don't yet need moisturizer for "mature skin." So why I thought I needed it at age 18, I have no earthly idea. I probably read it in a magazine, that this was THE moisturizer to have and that it would change your life, and I was young enough to believe that when a magazine told you something was life-changing, that it really would change your life. I traipsed to Nordstrom, went to either the Elizabeth Arden or Estee Lauder counter—I can't remember which, I just know it was one of those lines that was meant for women three times my age at the time—paid $56 cash (babysitting money) for this moisturizer, and let out the world's biggest harrumphwhen it did not change my life. To date I am vaguely pissed off at the woman at the counter who let me buy it, since I told her it was for myself.</li>
<li><b>Facial, ungodly amount. </b>I've <a href="https://autumn-whitefieldmadrano.squarespace.com/config#/|/e-beheldcom/2013/09/beauty-backfire-and-placebo-effecthtml">written about this before</a>, and why I spent an ungodly amount of money on this particular facial. Suffice to say that I am still embarrassed to print the number but will say that it wasn't much less than my plane ticket to the wedding. Across the country. I am not a rich woman. Just, at certain moments in my life, vain.</li>
<li><b>Stupid Mast Brothers stupid chocolate bar, $10. </b>Seriously, <a href="http://www.slate.com/articles/life/food/2015/03/against_mast_brothers_why_chocolate_experts_hate_the_best_known_craft_chocolate.html">Rick</a>, gimme my $10 back.</li>
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Autumn Whitefield-Madranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03379314479257695986noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5689865906513225949.post-77993192917460017902015-12-17T14:14:00.000-05:002015-12-17T14:14:16.793-05:00On Pageantry, the Virgin Mary, and the Smart Girl<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">Our Christmas pageant didn't bother with the stuffed cows, alas.</span></b></div>
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My parents raised me in the Methodist church, halfheartedly. The “halfhearted” part would come as no surprise to anyone seated within two rows of our family, as they may have noticed my mother substituting female pronouns in hymns, as well as her reputation for, if you placed her in the right company, questioning the existence of a god of any gender. My father was a bit more enthusiastic, going so far as to teach Sunday school, but even at 7 years old I sensed he was coming up with scripture role-plays out of community spirit, not devotion to Our Father And/Or Mother. When I found out as a teenager that my parents chose the church not because they were Methodist per se but because it was the only church in our South Dakota town with a female pastor and they wanted me to see women in leadership roles of any variety, the endeavor made more sense.<br />
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Given that the entire point of the Whitefield-Madrano churchgoing project was an experiment in 1980s liberal parenting, not to worship a deity we were all a little “meh” about,<b><span style="color: #274e13;"> it made sense that we embraced the performative aspects of church. Specifically, the Christmas pageant.</span></b> If you grew up even vaguely Christian, you know the setup: Kids in the church act out the nativity, dressing up in robes stored in the church basement to be rotated among the kids as they aged in and out of the appropriate roles. Three middle-school boys would carry staffs to lend them credence as Wise Men; younger kids might dress as sheep and donkeys. (The rural church a few miles down the road got to have real sheep, but we didn’t have the grazing room.) If there were an appropriately aged infant in the congregation, there might even be a live baby Jesus that year. </div>
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Then, of course, there were Mary and Joseph, the center of the entire scene. I mean, yes, <i>Jesus</i> was the center of the scene, if you want to get nitpicky, but he was usually played by a doll, at least at our church, given that we had around 100 congregants and therefore few opportunities for well-behaved infants to upstage Mary. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">And that’s exactly how I thought of it—upstaging Mary—because I <i>knew</i> that Mary was the center of it all. </span></b>That pale, luminous face! Those glossy tendrils of hair! Those rosy lips! That demure gaze! That dainty nose, those petals of eyelashes, that maiden-like blush. Mary was the one you were to be looking at; Mary was the center of attention. <i>Mary was a babe.</i></div>
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She <i>had</i> to be, if you look at the big picture, Christianity-wise. Goodness was beautiful, sin was ugly, and since Mary was the ultimate goodness, she pretty much had to be the ultimate beauty. To paint Mary as anything other than beautiful would be an insult*, not only to the mother of the Messiah but to the strict notions of female sexuality that ruled the church.<b><span style="color: #274e13;"> It’s one thing for Mary to be a virgin because she’s devoted to chastity; it’s quite another for her to be a virgin if it’s just that she couldn’t get laid. </span></b>The rosy lips, the loose hair, the flushed cheeks: These are signals of sexuality, but not with Mary. She alone gets to be totally beautiful, and totally pure. </div>
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None of this was lost on me as a second-grader, who, fascinated as I was by the cleavage and teased hair I’d see on my parents’ night soaps, found Mary’s virginal prettiness a tad more accessible. My religious skepticism kicked in early, but Mary’s beauty was <i>fact</i> to me, even as I didn’t bother to distinguish between the “real” Mary and depictions of her. I mean, could the covers of all those church bulletins really have gotten it wrong? (It hadn’t yet occurred to me that the skin of the women on those bulletins was suspiciously light for a woman of the Levant; my skepticism, it seemed, only went so far.) Proof of her beauty lay in the pageant itself: All Mary did was sit there, hold a baby, and <i>be looked at</i>. She didn’t even have to speak to command attention.</div>
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The only person who spoke in our Christmas pageant, actually, was the angel, who would read aloud from the Bible as nativity players assembled themselves.<b> <span style="color: #274e13;">The role of the angel, therefore, had to go to a child who read well enough and spoke clearly enough to recite the appropriate passages. Which, in our church, was me.</span> </b>Every year, it was me. In 1982 it was me, in 1983 it was me, 1984. We moved to another state for a couple of years, but when we returned in 1987, the white robe was still there waiting for me, its hem still pinned from when I wore it last, now able to be let out. I have no idea who played the angel during my hiatus, because our congregation was short on kids, which is part of why I’d been cast in the role every year to begin with.</div>
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It wasn’t hard to figure out the other reason the role always went to me. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">I was the smart one, so I played the angel, and Lisa K.—the only other girl of pageant-appropriate age at our church—was the pretty one, so she got to be Mary.</span></b> It wasn’t even a question; nobody ever asked me if I’d like to play Mary. Every year, the blue robe was handed to Lisa, and every year, the white one went to me. Joseph got to rotate; every year one of the four boys at the church would sub in, relieved that year of being one of the Wise Men. But Mary and the angel, we stayed the same.</div>
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I was hardly the only girl to absorb the pretty-or-smart dichotomy—for that’s what it was in my mind, a dichotomy. And I was happy to be on the “smart” side of things; even in adolescence, it never occurred to me to dumb myself down for boys. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">Prettiness seemed like something for other girls, the same way some kids had grandparents who lived in the same town or got to have Froot Loops every morning if they wanted. It simply wasn’t an option for me</span></b>, and I didn’t particularly mind, telling myself that it was okay, it evened out: Lisa K. got to be Mary—just like Jenny S. got to be the prettiest girl in the class—but<i> I </i>got to be smart. It was an honor I shared with the other “gifted and talented” kid in my grade, a girl I spent many an afternoon in a classroom corner with, picking out words from dictionaries for each other to spell out because we’d exhausted the teachers’ resources. The pretty-or-smart equation stayed even in my head; my “G&T” friend was a perfectly nice-looking girl, but she wore thick glasses, which somehow kept my imagined scales in balance. We weren’t at risk of being the prettiest girls in the class, so good thing we were the smartest.</div>
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This equation was never spoken aloud; nobody ever taught it to me, and certainly I knew better than to go around announcing it. Nobody <i>needed</i> to teach it to me. It made perfect sense: No one girl could be too much. To be the smart one, <i>and</i> the pretty one, was too potent for any one person. It was too much power, I suppose, though I wouldn’t have used that word then, as power wasn’t high on my priorities in the second grade. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">But like many a 7-year-old, I had a keenly tuned sense of justice, and I knew that to be the smart one and the pretty one would violate the fairness that I believed ruled the cosmos. </span></b>I didn’t believe that being pretty was better than being smart, or vice versa. But I knew they were both qualities that people admired, and keeping in line with my sense of justice, I figured it was pretty much fate as to which one you got.</div>
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So I accepted that white robe, year after year, just as I accepted my role as the smart girl. It was my duty: <b><span style="color: #274e13;">I could read better than Lisa K., and Lisa K. could look more daintily pious than I could, and that was that. With the naive condescension particular to precocious children, I even began to feel sorry for Lisa K. </span></b>I mean, I’d figured this whole thing out and was more or less cool with it. But Lisa K.! She hadn’t figured it out! She was going to play Mary her whole life and would never know why! Because she wasn't the smart girl! I bore the agony of my knowledge nobly, channeling my dignity into my solemn reading of Luke 2: 1-20. Still, every year in early December I would feel a twinge of hope that maybe this was the year that Lisa K. would get the white robe—I mean, she <i>did</i> know how to <i>read</i>—and I’d get the blue one. And every year, just before the roles would be announced, I’d abandon that hope, and every year, adults would compliment me on what a good reader I was. </div>
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By our last Christmas at that church—our last church Christmas period, as we’d move to Oregon the following year, where my parents would quietly decide to scrap the church thing altogether—I’d aged out of the pageant. I’d been confirmed that spring; I was now an <i>adult member </i>of the congregation, not the mere child I was at 12. Luckily, a new crop of kids was ready to take over. The three boys as the Wise Men, the slightly older kids to be Mary and Joseph. There was even a well-behaved infant who would make a cameo as the Messiah. </div>
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They’d chosen a new angel, and it wasn’t a surprise who. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">A 7-year-old with strong reading skills, a flair for performance as evidenced during her occasional solo with our meager choir, and a headful of strawberry blond hair was the new angel. </span></b>I’d felt a kinship with her even before the casting: She was smart, like me, a little quirky, like me. I was ready to retire, and at a sage 13 years old, I felt confident the role was being passed off in a fine manner. For the first time, I watched the pageant from the pews. I watched as the strawberry blond climbed the dais, swimming in my old robe, now rehemmed, and took her place at the pulpit. </div>
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Here, I am tempted to say my reaction was what it might be now, as an adult: that I watched a 7-year-old girl reciting scripture, and saw it for the charming act of religious pageantry it was, not as an enactment of the pretty-versus-smart balance of scales that existed in my head. That watching her, I understood my equation as a tender cruelty to both Lisa K. and myself, one I’d invented as a misguided way of navigating the beauty messages I was aware enough to pick up on but immature enough to handle poorly. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">I’d like to tell you that I watched a 7-year-old girl tripping on the hem of her angel’s robe, reciting scripture for the congregants to smile over, and saw that her prettiness was beside the point. </span></b></div>
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That would be untrue. I was still a child myself, one who had always assumed that her level of emotional maturity matched her level of intellectual maturity, which it didn’t. No: I looked at her, and looked at the girl who was playing Mary, and saw that she—the angel—was the pretty one. The lights fell upon that strawberry blond hair, her fair skin and freckles seeming impossibly adorable, and she read with the kind of expertise that I recognized. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">Instead of beginning to wonder if the smart-pretty equation was off in my head, I immediately assumed that it wasn’t right, it wasn’t <i>fair</i>, that this girl was the angel <i>and</i> pretty.</span></b><br />
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It was a sensation I’d have again a few months later, when my G&T dictionary cohort would exchange her thick glasses for contact lenses, revealing her enormous amber eyes—and thus, her babedom—for the world to see; I’d have it again when I started high school and found that the smart-kid program was full of pretty girls—girls who boys liked, girls who hadn’t fallen rank-and-file onto one balance of the scale or the other. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">Girls who would, eventually, lead me to see that smart vs. pretty was a game none of us actually wanted to play, a game engineered by a sensibility that was assuring a generation of young women that they could become whatever they wanted yet couldn’t let go of the checks and balances that had supported the status quo of femininity for so long. </span></b>Girls who went on to be pilots, mothers, biologists, dancers. Girls whose own mental arithmetic may have stayed as private as my own, girls who may have decidedly chosen one but simply couldn’t help being the other too, girls whose scales bore different labels than mine but prompted the same shuttering of self. Girls who would have dismissed the notion of any pretty-versus-smart scale out of hand, had I ever shared that corner of my mind with them. Girls I would watch for the four critical years that make up high school. Girls who, maybe, watched me back.</div>
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I sat there, watching, jealous of a 7-year-old, and ashamed for that jealousy. I wasn’t above evaluating the looks of a second-grader, but I knew I should be above envying her for them. In time I would learn that pretty and smart played just fine together, finally giving credence to the evidence I saw everywhere around me. But I didn’t know that then. All I could do is listen to her recitation: <i>Be not afraid; for behold, I bring you good news of a great joy which will come to all the people. </i>She read beautifully.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">*For more on this, check out <i><a href="https://books.google.com/books?id=XF71kR2h1LsC&printsec=frontcover&dq=Ambiguous+Locks:+An+Iconology+of+Hair+in+Medieval+Art+and+Literature&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwifwvidyePJAhUEox4KHWw7DQ4Q6AEIHzAA#v=onepage&q=Ambiguous%20Locks%3A%20An%20Iconology%20of%20Hair%20in%20Medieval%20Art%20and%20Literature&f=false">Ambiguous Locks: An Iconology of Hair in Medieval Art and Literature</a></i>, by Roberta Milliken.</span></div>
Autumn Whitefield-Madranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03379314479257695986noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5689865906513225949.post-21048859483827556362015-12-10T09:52:00.001-05:002015-12-10T09:52:40.082-05:00Compliments, Catcalls, and Weariness<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">Still deciding if it's okay to catcall cats.</span></b></div>
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The first time it happened, I was in Hell’s Kitchen, steeling myself against whatever the man walking toward me was sure to say. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">If you live in urban areas long enough, and if you’re a woman, you learn the little signals that let you know a dose of street harassment is coming</span></b>: He’s searching for your gaze and doesn’t avert it if your eyes catch his; he’s either alone or standing in a stationary cluster of other men, none of whom are looking at one another but who are clearly associated. Most of all, he’s got <i>the look</i>, which boils down not to physical clues—he could just as easily be dressed in Silicon Valley chic as in the clichéd construction-worker gear—but an expression (or is it an expression you redraw in your head once he’s passed, once he’s said whatever it is that he’s going to say, once he’s confirmed that yes, he won’t you pass with the dignity of silence?).<div>
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This was one of those men, so I held my gaze forward, kept my pace even, did not look down, the things that #YesAllWomen learn to do, the things that most men are surprised to learn their sisters and girlfriends have quietly mastered, the things many women are surprised to learn they’ve mastered. And then, sure enough, it came, in a graveled voice steeped in 1970s New York tough-guy movies: “Nice color.”</div>
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It <i>was</i> a nice color, the fuchsia scarf wrapped twice around my neck, particularly set against the all-black of the rest of the outfit. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">It was a good shade for me, and even if it hadn’t been flattering it was noticeable. That was the idea; that’s why I’d chosen it. I felt vaguely sheepish after his utterance</span></b>: I’d been bracing myself against another category of comment that tends to come from male strangers, not the sort of thing an officemate or my mother might say offhandedly. <i>How silly of me</i>, I thought, <i>assuming the worst just because he looked a certain way</i>. And then: <i>How arrogant of me.</i> I’d long known that catcalls weren’t compliments, nor did I take them as any assessment of my actual appeal, rather as an assessment of power and claiming of public space. But to steel myself for a catcall and to have it replaced by something cordial provoked not actual arrogance but the foolishness of wondering if one was arrogant after all. </div>
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When I say this was the first time it happened, what I mean is that this was the first time I can recall picking up on the fact that a stranger was going to say something to me, had braced myself for it, and then heard a compliment on my outfit that was downright pleasant. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">Not a comment on my womanhood (“Come over here, baby”), general appearance (“Hey, beautiful”), or body (“Nice legs”), but words specifically about the outfit, and without using it as an entrée into further conversation, and absent a slithering tone</span></b> that might imply that while he might be complimenting the outfit he was really saying something about my body. Brotherly, fatherly. Friendly.</div>
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The fuchsia-scarf interaction stuck with me, and as I noticed it happening more and more, it recalled how I felt when I first hit the age where men would say things. I remember walking down the main drag of my South Dakota town with three friends; as a car passed us, a young man yelled out, “Hey baby!” It was the first time anyone had acknowledged me as a sexual creature—which I was, as much as any 11-year-old girl stuck in a classroom full of oblivious boys is—and it was a thrill. Once it started happening more frequently, the thrill turned to annoyance, with streaks of anger, fear, and amusement scattered about. Still, my initial reaction to that first catcall was to read it with the naive generosity of a sixth-grader: It was attention, presumably complimentary, and it felt nice. I interpreted the fuchsia-scarf interaction through the more jaded lens of a thirtysomething New Yorker, but that lens was still generous: <b><span style="color: #274e13;">It was a compliment, not a seedy one, and weren’t the random public interactions one has in this city—not catcalls, but the momentary delight of one stranger conversing with another, then sailing on, never to be seen again—part of why I loved living here? </span></b>Did I want to live in a world where strangers <i>couldn’t</i> interact with one another without my creepometer going off?</div>
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It kept happening, in ways it hadn’t before, at least not regularly. I thought maybe it was me: I was marching toward 40, was this how men treated women stepping out of youth? As “ladies,” not as public objects? <b><span style="color: #274e13;">That is, I made the classic mistake of thinking that things strange men said to me were about me, not about sex, gender, and power. </span></b>But it came up in conversation with <a href="https://twitter.com/katrahigher">Katrin</a>—whose footsteps are farther away from 40 than my own—after a stranger gave her the same sort of ostensibly gentlemanly comment. I shared my own experience, and she’d noticed it too: “What, do they think they’re our <i>girlfriends</i> now?” she asked.</div>
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I laughed, because it’s funny. But the more I thought about it, the more it irked me. <i>Were</i> men trying to get in on the niche of female solidarity that sees women bursting forth with compliments for one another—were they trying to be our girlfriends? Was this an exhibition of “PC Bro” behavior? <b><span style="color: #274e13;">For just as that most friendly, least threatening of words—<i>hello</i>—when a compliment is uttered between strangers who have some sort of perceived power imbalance, the message goes beyond the words.</span></b></div>
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Catcalls are marked by their crassness, either by their blatantly sexual content about women’s bodies, or by the direct implication that the utterance is a mating call (“Hey, baby”). A compliment about one’s outfit, absent sexualization, isn’t necessarily crass; often, it’s kind. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">But this kind of supposed compliment goes to the heart of the real problem of street harassment: surveillance of women.</span></b> It performs another neat trick in that if you complain about it, you’re easily accused of overreacting, even from those who would nod at your right to huff and puff about the “Hey, baby” variety of catcaller. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">It’s more polite than a catcall, but it does much of the same work: It makes sure that women are still evaluated on their appearance, makes sure that women <i>know</i> they’re evaluated on their appearance, and makes sure that it’s men doing the evaluating. It makes sure that we know we’re being watched. </span></b><i>Nicely</i>, of course, or at least that’s the line—<i>lady, you can’t tell me you’re seriously threatened by me telling you I like your scarf?</i></div>
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And no, I’m not. Violence, assault, intimidation: Yes, of course those happen to women in public spaces, all the time, every day. Anti-harassment campaigns like <a href="http://www.ihollaback.org/">Hollaback</a> are correct in focusing their efforts on these aspects of street harassment; they’re a more concrete threat than mere annoyance. But fear of violence is not why I seize up when I sense that the man walking toward me is about to say something. In fact, that seizing isn’t usually about fear at all, but about weariness. Weariness about the fact that even if—let’s hand out the benefit of the doubt here—men who say things to me, and to you, really <i>do</i> just like the color of our scarves, there’s still a presumption that we want to know about it. And I do want to know, sure, and I delight in hearing a compliment from a female stranger on the street, or from a friend of any sex. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">But the compliment as undercover catcall—even if it is offered in genuine kindness—shows a presumption that men and women share the streets in the same way, when we don’t. </span></b>A well-meaning man might issue this kind of utterance as a genuine attempt at friendliness (“Do they think they’re our <i>girlfriends?</i>”) but it reveals that he has no idea that I’ve heard those words before, or words like them, and that they’ve been used not as a compliment about my dress but about the flesh that’s underneath and what should be done to it. </div>
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The compliment as undercover catcall makes me think of “PC bro” culture, a phenomenon taken to ludicrous heights on <i>South Park</i> with the advent of <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2015/12/09/arts/television/south-park-sketches-grander-satire-themes.html?_r=0">“PC Principal.”</a> (And, more seriously, by <a href="http://www.slate.com/articles/double_x/doublex/2015/12/james_deen_stoya_rape_accusations_the_porn_star_was_never_a_feminist_idol.single.html">James Deen</a>.) PC bros—in South Park and in life—are a mix of men genuinely eager to make the world a better place for the oppressed and enforcing “safe” language in their efforts to do so, and men adopting the language they’ve learned due to the heightened visibility of oppressed people in order to further their own agenda. (In one episode, it’s charged that “PC” stands not for “politically correct” but for “pussy crusher.”) I’m genuinely sympathetic to earnest men here—I’ve always believed that feminism makes the world better for everyone, but it’s uncomfortable to be in the position of someone who’s making good-faith efforts to transform patriarchal culture, only to find out that those efforts are missteps. It’s easy to be harrumphy about men whose motives are more obviously suspect. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">It’s harder to tell the dude who recognizes that catcalling isn’t okay but then keeps its surveillance alive through the compliment that what he’s doing is catcalling’s gentler cousin: </span></b>different face, one that’s kinder and nonthreatening, but with a shared bloodline nonetheless.</div>
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Do I want to live in a world where male and female strangers are barred from speaking to one another because women are tired of it all? Depending on the day, that’s tempting, but ultimately, I don’t; <b><span style="color: #274e13;">awareness of sexism should expand us, not cloister us</span></b>. I suppose what I’d want to happen is for men to just know what they’re saying when they say it—or rather, for men to know what women <i>hear</i> when they speak. To know that the two are not the same.</div>
Autumn Whitefield-Madranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03379314479257695986noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5689865906513225949.post-50436129838299362242015-09-16T22:35:00.000-04:002015-09-16T22:35:12.445-04:00The Tightrope Walker<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>In an interview last week in </i>Rolling Stone<i> magazine, Donald Trump said the following about you. Quote, "Look at that face. Would anyone vote for that? Can you imagine that, the face of our next president?" Mr. Trump later said he was talking about your persona, not your appearance. Please feel free to respond what you think about his persona.</i><br />
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You are running for President of the United States; the number of women who have done this on a serious level in the 239-year history of this country can be counted on one hand. You are not qualified—no, really, you aren't—but you are exactly as qualified as the current front-runner of your party. And you are smarter, and more articulate, and more poised than he is. You have excellent recall, and you are the only candidate in the second national debate who repeatedly, and only, talks about America, not about the circus that your party's nomination has become.<br />
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And then, he asks you <i>that</i>. That question, that odious question, the one you <i>knew</i> he would ask, the one you prepped for, the one you treated nonchalantly in that prep. He asked you the question about what he said. You know it's not a serious question, that you are thrust into the role of the tightrope walker because P.T. Barnum promised that he had a great one waiting backstage. But you are a serious woman, a serious candidate, and so you answer.<br />
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Are you humiliated? Are you humiliated that you are the only candidate to be put in this position—that could are the only candidate who <i>could</i> be put in this position? Are you humiliated that once again, as has happened before at your desk, then at your cubicle, and in rooms where you are interviewed, and in rooms where you eventually interview others, and in careless remarks at meetings, that it comes to <i>this</i> again? To your face, to your sex, to what so many of—please don't believe it's all—the men who have faced you in the boardroom have considered, your appeal? Is the teenage girl who looked in the mirror in 1968 and thought what so many teenage girls think about the way they look—is she there tonight, and is she shrinking?<br />
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Or are you angry? Are you angry that should you suddenly defeat all the odds and you are facing <i>her</i> next year, that the question of your face will haunt you, haunt you both, that there will be memes of your worst possible facial contortion alongside hers? Are you angry that when you next meet up with women with whom you share a quiet understanding of what it's like to be at the very, very top of your game, they might want to discuss <i>this</i>? Are you angry that you are dancing backward and in high heels and that it still comes down to how good you look in your ballgown?<br />
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Or do you look out, and do you quiet whatever you feel—my amateur guesses, as much as I wish I didn't instinctively reach for the first of these, are humiliation and anger, for that is what I felt, sitting here tonight, watching you having to answer a ridiculous question based on a ridiculous statement from a ridiculous man—and say to America, <i>I think women all over this country heard very clearly what Mr. Trump said?</i><br />
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And once you have said it, and once you have <i>ended the conversation</i>: Ms. Fiorina, please tell me that from even from the couch of someone who disagrees with you on policy, the economy, civil rights, reproductive rights, capital punishment, gun control, health care, and pretty much everything else—you know that tonight, you won.Autumn Whitefield-Madranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03379314479257695986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5689865906513225949.post-5619404577177801072015-08-04T11:47:00.000-04:002015-08-04T11:47:30.877-04:00Sex Appeal, Beauty, and Normalcy: "The Sex Myth" by Rachel Hills<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The first time I had sex, I couldn’t wait to tell the first friend I saw. As it were, the first acquaintance I ran into afterward was my high school social studies teacher—I was in college at the time but he was visiting the campus, and I spent what would’ve been a very pleasant coffee date with him desperately trying to not blurt out, <i>I’m not a virgin anymore, Mr. Tatum.</i> After that excruciating coffee, I saw a friend, grabbed her arm, and said what I’d been dying to say. She was excited for me, and asked all the right questions that allowed me to give all the right answers. As we talked, I became aware of the light behind her head, the atmosphere that suddenly seemed thinner, lighter; I remember seeing the faded blue of her chambray shirt as suddenly, intensely vivid and thinking, <i>Everything looks different now. </i>I had been a virgin, and now I wasn’t, and <i>these</i> eyes were the ones I’d be seeing the world with from now on.<br /><br />This, as laid out in Rachel Hills’ <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1451685785?tag=simonsayscom">thoroughly engaging new book</a>, is part of the Sex Myth. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">We’ve come to think of sex as more than something we do for recreation and procreation; western societies now frame sex as a statement about who we <i>are</i>. </span></b>You’re not seen as complete unless you’re having sex, and plenty of it, and in just the right ways—for all the sexual permissiveness we’ve come to grant ourselves, there are still just as many ways to get sex wrong. The idea of the Sex Myth serves as a regulation of sorts, shaping not simply what we do in bed but our public and private identities.<br /><br />A book about sex, particularly one filled with as many “aha!” moments as this one, is going to be enough for plenty to pick it up. If you’re interested in beauty and physical appearance on top of that, <i>The Sex Myth</i> has even greater wealth. Hills skillfully lays out the ways that sex has become entwined with people’s images, including how we use appearance to give a managed vision of sexuality. Not that we’re directly advertising our presumed sexual interests on our bodies (though some do). But as Hills points out, <b><span style="color: #274e13;">it’s easy to overlook the intersection of sex and identity when we tick all the socially approved boxes. </span></b>Looking like a sexually desirable woman might be on my agenda at times, but I’d never taken the connection between self-presentation and sex farther than that. That’s an easy place for me to reside in because I’ve got plenty of sexual permission: I’m a heterosexual, partnered, cisgendered white chick who isn’t just monogamous but is <i>serially</i> monogamous, so it’s presumed I have the sexual experience a woman in her 30s “should” have. There’s not a lot of deviance I’m forced to hide, ameliorate, or justify. But of course my sexual self-presentation asserts itself beyond my appeal: I dress in women’s clothes, I have long hair and wear makeup, I reveal enough skin to show that I’m not uncomfortable with the mere idea of sex, but not so much that I push the line of “slut.”<br /><br />In other words, I look “normal,” which files me into a bin with plenty of other compliant-looking women. Looking “normal” is certainly no guarantee of actual compliance (thank heavens), but you wouldn’t know that from looking at the pile of knee-length skirts and tasteful kitten heels lying in our wake. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">Sex, looks, and normalcy: Humans walk a fine line here to avoid falling on the “wrong” side, and women have more experience in navigating that line than men. </span></b>(There is no male equivalent of “lady on the streets, freak between the sheets.”) We’re educated in how to look good but not like we tried too hard, how to advertise our sex appeal without looking aggressive. In the same way, the Sex Myth has men and women alike attempting to appear a carefully calibrated line of “normal”: sexually deviant enough to be interesting but not so deviant as to actually be labeled perverted, ready and willing at all times but without any whiff of desperation. It’s a variation on the sexual double bind for women that has existed for centuries, with the twist that it does its policing under the guise of liberation. As Hills writes, “sex doesn’t need to be actively suppressed in order to be controlled.”<br /><br />More than what our looks might articulate about sexuality, our looks articulate the Sex Myth itself. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">Both sex and appearance become stand-ins for other qualities—competence, likability, <i>interestingness</i>. Appearance becomes the first step: We see beauty as the route to sex appeal, and sex appeal as the route to so many other aspects of life’s bounty. </span></b>Trouble is, these routes are hardly straightforward. Beautiful people aren’t necessarily having more sex, nor are they necessarily more confident in their appeal. Meanwhile, the <i>actual</i> route to confidence about one’s sex appeal—having positive early sexual experiences—remains unconsidered in the culture at large, almost shooed aside in favor of juicier mental equations about sexual satisfaction. It echoes truths about conventional beauty: We think beautiful people are happier, more successful, richer, better, but that’s not quite what’s going on. Good-looking people do indeed benefit from the “halo effect” of being treated as though they have all these qualities, but it’s not like they’re inherently happier or more successful than the rest of us, and the halo effect itself is limited, particularly for women. (Being too good-looking can actually cost a woman in the workplace, depending on her profession.) <b><span style="color: #274e13;">We keep making false associations between beauty and a better life because those associations don’t <i>feel</i> false. Appearance is in and on our bodies, lending the fallacies of beauty the impression of visceral truth. That goes double for sex.</span></b><br /><br />Breaking these associations would mean to break the Sex Myth, and for that matter, much of the beauty myth as well. The question is what breaking those associations would look like. Severing the assumption that good sex equals a good life would allow for more pleasure for pleasure’s sake, for starters, in much the same way that understanding that beauty doesn’t bring happiness can draw us toward a play-based approach to adornment. It might allow us more genuine fluidity in our sexual lives—fluidity of orientation, libido, approaches to partnerships on the whole. It could even just help us take the pressure off.<br /><br />Moreover, it might also keep sex private. The politicization of certain aspects of sex has been beneficial in plenty of ways (think queer visibility and reproductive rights). One area where its benefits are more dubious is its effect on appearance, particularly women’s appearance. Beauty and sex interact in a particularly odd way: We use appearance (something public) as a manifestation of our sexuality (something private). Certainly I don’t want a world where we can’t express our sexuality through the way we look—we’ve been there, and it didn’t work. But for plenty of women, <b><span style="color: #274e13;">giving off an air of desirability has <i>nothing to do with actual desire</i>, whether feeling it or provoking it—yet embodying desire has become so enmeshed with the idea of “looking good” that they're practically synonymous. </span></b>People are making strides to counter this: Witness Man Repeller, the embrace of nail art as potential subversion (as Tracie Egan Morrissey writes, <a href="http://jezebel.com/5930229/nail-art-the-last-bastion-of-female-centric-beauty">“Men don’t want to fuck you because of the design painted on your nails”</a>), and The Great Maxi Dress Debate of 2015 (the <a href="https://fashionresearch.wordpress.com/2015/05/10/comfort-makes-me-uncomfortable-why-we-love-to-hate-the-maxi-dress/">smartest take of which is here</a>). The woman who takes this approach to self-presentation might be just as much—or just as little—a “freak between the sheets” as her more publicly sexual forerunners. The point is that we won’t know.<br /><br />Leaving sex in the bedroom when appropriate doesn’t mean being less (or more) sexual, nor does it mean sneering at those who do make it more a part of their public persona. What it might do is help us see it for what it is, instead of what it’s not.Autumn Whitefield-Madranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03379314479257695986noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5689865906513225949.post-59142407940095868222015-07-29T14:19:00.000-04:002015-07-29T14:19:07.165-04:00News Flash: Beauty Consumers Aren't Suckers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />The headlines regarding <a href="http://www.tandfonline.com/doi/full/10.1080/20932685.2015.1032319#abstract">this recent study</a> about claims made in cosmetics ads indicate things like <a href="http://www.cbsnews.com/news/most-beauty-product-claims-are-bogus/">"Most 'scientific' beauty product claims are bogus." </a>As per usual, the headline isn't accurate at all; the study measured whether product claims were <i>seen</i> as accurate, which is an entirely different matter. Luckily, the question of whether customers <i>think</i> products are bogus is arguably more interesting than whether or not they actually are, so let's go from there—<br /><br />In short, the study found that <b><span style="color: #274e13;">women think most beauty ads are bullshit.</span></b> And appropriately so: They found ads that directly claimed superiority over other products to be flat-out false, and ads based on science to be vague or omissive. Interestingly, the ad type that was perceived as being most acceptable was endorsements—which makes sense, as most of us implicitly understand that at the very least, the person making the endorsement is agreeing of her own free will to make it (even if it's a talking-head fee, not the product's efficacy, that prompts the agreement). And cannily executed, an endorsement, particularly a celebrity endorsement, can be effective <a href="http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1002/mar.20550/abstract?userIsAuthenticated=false&deniedAccessCustomisedMessage=">if the consumer sees a reflection of herself in the spokesperson</a>.<br /><br />So we're not suckers for iffy advertising; that's great. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">But if we actively do not believe the advertising, why <i>are</i> we buying the products?</span></b> Reputation? Curiosity? Joyful participation in consumerism? <i>Hope? </i>The study I'd really like to see is one in which women who actually buy these products (I include myself here) judge the ads. I'm just as skeptical as the women in this study, but my bathroom shelf has plenty of products that make science-ish claims on it. I do my research, sure, and if I don't think I see any change I don't buy a product again. But the trick of the beauty industry lies in that little blip: If I don't think I see any change. Most things that come in a jar are going to have effects so subtle that their effectiveness is largely in terms of perception, not anything measurable. I think the retinoid cream I use helps keep my skin smooth, but do I know?<br /><br />The science of beauty ads isn't meant to educate consumers on polymers and retinoids. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">The science only needs to be assuring enough to fill in that gap between thinking and knowing a product is "working,"</span></b> whatever any consumer's definition of "working" might be. Cosmetics' science claims don't hold up independently, and they don't need to. They just need to hold up enough to nudge us right over the border of where hope and possibility meet.<br /><br />I've talked with plenty of women about why they wear beauty products, specifically makeup and how it plays into women's day-to-day routines, but not so much about why they buy them. Tell me: <b><span style="color: #274e13;">What goes through your mind when you're deciding whether to purchase a product? </span></b>Are you evaluating the product's claims, parsing the words on the label? Are you going by what trusted sources have said? Do you go into a purchase with cynicism, or hope, or both?Autumn Whitefield-Madranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03379314479257695986noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5689865906513225949.post-67864912464761639022015-06-30T06:34:00.000-04:002015-06-30T06:34:00.041-04:00Watching Women WantI’ve been watching a lot of the Women’s World Cup, with a fervor that surprises even me. I’m an unlikely soccer fan to begin with; sports, personally speaking, have traditionally been something to be avoided and/or feared. But after I shocked myself last summer by watching literally every single World Cup match—including dual-screening it for games that overlapped—I surrendered in full to the beautiful game. <div>
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Women’s soccer, though? I didn’t follow it. I supported it politically, of course, but it was rare to find a women’s game on TV. I muddled through a couple of U.S. Women’s National Team matches, but I didn’t know the players, which detracted from its appeal. Knowing that the Fox networks were going to broadcast all the games of the Women’s World Cup, I decided to give it a go, since the tournament would give me plenty of opportunities to become familiar with the players. I’d hoped to be as entertained as I was with the men’s version last year, and I have been. What I didn’t expect to be was moved.</div>
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The playing is excellent, of course; it’s the best female soccer players in the world, after all. But what <i>moves</i> me is not a beautiful pass, or a bad refereeing call, or even the players’ backstories.<b><span style="color: #274e13;"> What moves me is the players’ faces, and watching women want. </span></b>It’s not hard to find images of women in the public act of <i>doing</i> beyond what’s been allotted by tired stereotypes. We see women legislating, creating, speaking, protesting—images that weren’t available just a couple of generations ago.<b><span style="color: #274e13;"> But we still don’t often see women in the act of <i>wanting</i>. And we need to see this, because when you’re in the act of wanting something badly enough, there isn’t room for self-consciousness. </span></b>How you look, your stance, your hair, your makeup, whether you appear pretty, your sex appeal: all of these things that coalesce in my brain, and maybe yours, to form a hum so low and so constant that I take it as a state of being—and when you <i>want</i>, they disappear. When <i>you want</i>, the want goes to the fore. The you can take a backseat.</div>
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What do you look like when you want? In my case, I can’t really say. There are plenty of things in this world that I want, but most of my deepest desires make wanting a state, not an act: I want to do meaningful work, I want to be happy, I want to give and receive love. The closest I know to the act of <i>wanting</i> in the ways female athletes want is perhaps the <a href="http://www.learning-theories.com/flow-csikszentmihalyi.html">state of flow</a>. In those rare moments of flow, self-consciousness falls away. It’s a gift when it happens. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">But I’ve never had occasion to test how far the flow state really goes as far as lifting my own awareness of how I appear. Even when my entire being is focused on a desire, I’m probably not at risk of truly breaking any sort of code of feminine regulation. </span></b>I don’t really know what I look like when I’m writing but I imagine the weirdest thing my face does is frown a lot. I probably look weirder in the context of sexual desire, but the contortions particular to the “O” face get a pass of sorts. </div>
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When I watch the athletes of this World Cup, I see an entirely different way that desire becomes focused. Specifically, I see desire become externalized. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">Elite athletes have spent their entire lives articulating themselves through moving their bodies. To watch them want something is an exercise in watching desire become a visual, physical force. </span></b></div>
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Christine Sinclair.</div>
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Hope Solo.</div>
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Celia Sasic.</div>
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Lisa De Vanna.</div>
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Lady Andrade.</div>
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<br />These women are not thinking about how they look, how their faces are posed, how their bodies might be viewed. The face becomes a way of communicating to teammates; the body, as they have trained it to become through thousands of hours of practice, a vehicle for winning. Certainly there are plenty of times in every woman’s life when how she looks isn’t at the fore of her mind, but it’s rare to have proof—visual, unrefutable proof—that at that moment, she is absolutely not thinking about how she looks. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">To watch female athletes is to watch women not give a shit when they look ugly.</span></b> A lifelong soccer fan recently told me he feels guilty sometimes watching women’s sports because he catches himself being enthralled by their beauty, not just their skill. I told him to keep watching. Because as much as we’ve turned female athletes into spectacles of beauty and sexuality, the more that we watch women want in this particular way, the more we’ll get used to seeing women—beautiful women, odd-looking women, and perfectly pedestrian-looking women, and cute women and sexy women and butch women and girly-girl women—look not-pretty, even ugly sometimes, without apology. Whatever any particular athlete might have cared about before the game (don’t tell me some of those players aren’t wearing eyelash extensions) doesn’t matter. In the moment, she does not give a shit. There is a power in that—a power that I find, without exaggeration, transcendental.</div>
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For about a year now, I’ve had a question written on the whiteboard where I keep random thoughts, blog-post ideas, notes to myself, the occasional phone number. The question is, <i>What would have gotten me into gym class as a kid? </i><b><span style="color: #274e13;">My childhood was the perfect storm for hating physical activity: I was bookish, I was fat, and I didn’t like to do things I wasn’t immediately good at. There’s another factor that I now see loomed large in my rejection of any physical activity I wasn’t pretty much forced to do: I was desperately afraid of looking stupid.</span></b> When I studied theater in college, that was the note teachers and directors repeatedly gave me—<i>you’re afraid of looking stupid</i>—and they were right. Save the occasional bully, nobody was telling me I looked stupid, nor was I looking at other kids on the kickball field and thinking they looked stupid when they were trying their best. What killed any curiosity I might have had about how my body moved was my own self-consciousness.</div>
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As an adult, I’m not an athlete per se—I play one annual round of beach kadema each year and that’s it—but I shock myself with my interest in fitness that goes beyond its aesthetic rewards. I strength-train, and I train hard, and I love it, and every so often it hits me that the kid who used to play sick on track and field day now picks up heavy things of her own volition. At least a few times a month, I find myself giving a silent, spontaneous thanks that <b><span style="color: #274e13;">something shifted enough within me to start treating my body as a physical tool instead of just an inconvenient container for my head. What that shift tells me, though, is that there might have been something that could have flipped on that switch earlier in my life.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #274e13;">That something, I suspect, could have been the face of Abby Wambach, or Christine Sinclair, or Wendie Renard, or any of the women whose faces have moved me in the past few weeks. </span></b>I’ve long known the basic facts about girls and sports: <a href="http://www.womenssportsfoundation.org/home/athletes/for-athletes/know-your-rights/athlete-resources/mythbusting-what-every-female-athlete-should-know">Girls who play sports have higher self-esteem, more resiliency, more leadership abilities</a>, none of which should be surprising (it’s not hard to see how focusing on what your body can do instead of what it looks like would be A Good Thing). I’ve also long known of the power of role models: I grew up with the gift of parents who told me I could become anything I wanted to become (a pilot! a painter! a scientist! the president!), and they did their best to point out public role models for me. Until this World Cup, though, I never thought to put them together: that having role models who spoke to my extraordinary self-consciousness could have helped me reap the benefits of sports as a girl. </div>
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The chances of me having gone on to become an actual athlete were always slim; that’s not how I’m wired, and nothing would have changed that. And team sports in particular would never have been my bag, I don’t think. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">But I wish I’d had some sort of template that could have earlier taught me the joys of inhabiting my body. I wish I’d seen more women be so focused on physical exertion that it silenced whatever hum of self-consciousness they might have had.</span></b> I wish I’d had more visible proof that there were so many women out there who had the ability to not care how they looked, again and again and again, every training and scrimmage and game. I wish I’d seen more women want. </div>
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I’m in awe of the athleticism on display in the Women’s World Cup. I watch the matches for the skill, the strategy, the stories. I watch it because, against all logical parts of my personal history, I somehow have come to understand why we call soccer the beautiful game. But the part I will remember is watching women want.</div>
Autumn Whitefield-Madranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03379314479257695986noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5689865906513225949.post-3170491357893787922015-04-20T00:23:00.004-04:002015-04-20T00:23:54.299-04:00Beauty Didn't Birth the Beast<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Sally Draper, preachin' truth.</span></div>
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I swear I will one day blog about something other than <i>Mad Men.</i> But until that time comes! This episode was interesting in that <b><span style="color: #274e13;">two separate characters referred to Don's good looks as a liability</span></b>. One of the creatives at the agency says to him in anger after Don suggests he might want to work on some character-building, "You don't have any character, you're just handsome—stop kidding yourself." And then toward the episode's end, his daughter says that both he and first-wife Betty are exactly alike, in that "anyone pays attention to either of you—and they always do—you just <i>ooze everywhere</i>." (Two of Sally's friends, totally separate from one another, had each attempted some amateur seduction on both of Sally's parents in this episode, so this wasn't out of nowhere.)<br />
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The first one was interesting, but mostly just in the context of <i>Mad Men</i>: Don has plenty of character, but we know that indeed a chunk of it <i>has</i> been formed around his incredible looks. The second reference is what's really juicy here. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">In fiction, if someone's good looks are referred to as a liability, it's usually used to mean a fairly limited set of options.</span></b> Maybe the character hasn't had to develop other facets of herself because she's relied on her beauty. (Which—I mean, has anyone ever <i>met</i> someone like that, for real? In my experience dullness and beauty have exactly zero correlation, let alone causation; the dullards I know are plain and pretty in equal amounts.) Maybe a character been taught her looks are her greatest asset so she's used them to manipulate others, or his handsomeness has pushed him toward con artistry. If it's a feminist-minded creator maybe we've seen how beautiful women aren't taken seriously (i.e. the genesis of many a Joan plot line in this very series). Or maybe women don't trust her, or men don't trust him, or whatever. (Of course, the #1 way we see a character's looks work against her is that Her Beauty Drives Men to Madness, but that's such an ugggh cliché I'm not even counting it here.)<br />
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<b style="color: #274e13;">But here you have a character's attractiveness being referenced not as a liability in and of itself, but as an amplification of an already-existing tendency</b>: the inability to turn away sexual attention. Don and Betty are two people who are starved for attention, and that would be true even if they weren't played by actors as good-looking as Jon Hamm and January Jones. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">But their beauty allows the quality Sally refers to as "ooze" to be read by others as charm or graciousness, or as a stream of reciprocal attention. </span></b>And in turn, both of these characters have learned to trust that that's how their highly sensitive attention-radars will be seen. The fact that their looks garner each of them a generous amount of attention becomes almost secondary; it just lets them get away with absorbing the gaze of others in a way that doesn't seem desperate.*<br />
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I've interviewed lots of people, mostly women, in-depth about their relationship with their looks, and <b><span style="color: #274e13;">when I first started doing formal interviews I was initially surprised that I wasn't finding any sort of parallel between a woman's experiences or attitude and how conventionally attractive she was</span></b>. Asking a professional beauty about her experiences as a model is one thing, but asking her about how her looks had shaped, say, her love life was a different story. I never thought that meant a person's looks were irrelevant to how she viewed the world, but I sort of chalked it up to beauty not being as important as other factors in shaping one's worldview, or chirpily shook it off as "Well, everyone's different!" But I think <b><span style="color: #274e13;">Sally's quip crystallizes an important factor: A person's looks can shape already existing tendencies. It does not create them. </span></b>Nor does it shape tendencies in the same way for everyone. But I like the idea of looks functioning as a filter—as one of many filters—that determine how we walk through the world. There are so many oppositional ideas about how beauty affects people out there: You've got men who are genuinely surprised when they meet a woman who manages to be both beautiful and brilliant, you've got people who assume beautiful people have it easy because "everything is handed to them," you've got people shaking their heads about how hard gorgeous women have it because other women supposedly hate them so much. If we come to see appearance as one of many forces that distinctly shape our lives, we might have a more genuine understanding of how the lives of extraordinarily beautiful people are affected by their looks—and of how the rest of us have our lives affected by the same.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">*Asterisked because this will mean absolutely nothing to people who don't watch the show: Rather, Don's and Betty's ways don't seem desperate until it's seen by someone who knows better, which in this case is Sally. Or the viewer, who is supposed to be thoroughly horrified when Betty gives 18-year-old Glen the eye. When the two of them had a creepy encounter years before, we were supposed to read it as a sign of Betty's yearning to connect with someone—anyone—even if it's a prepubescent boy down the block who has an enormous crush on her. Now that Glen's gone and grown up, that same need of hers goes from being pathetic-as-in-pathos to being pathetic as in...pathetic. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Okay, you got me, I just wanted to find a way to work in GLEN.</span><br />
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Autumn Whitefield-Madranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03379314479257695986noreply@blogger.com91tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5689865906513225949.post-31497641714182972062015-04-15T14:38:00.002-04:002015-04-15T14:47:18.431-04:0070 Years Ago Today<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Bergen_Belsen_Liberation_02.jpg">Women and children in one of the huts at Bergen-Belsen, postliberation, April 1945.</a></span></div>
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Seventy years ago today, British troops liberated the Nazi concentration camp Bergen-Belsen. In the days and weeks following the liberation, British and American soldiers took to treating and relocating the thousands of desperately ill prisoners. One of those soldiers, Lt. Col. Mervin Willett Gonin, among other recordings of that time, <a href="http://www.bergenbelsen.co.uk/pages/Database/ReliefStaffAccount.asp?HeroesID=17&">wrote the following in his diary</a>:<br />
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It was shortly after the British Red Cross arrived, though it may have no connection, that a very large quantity of lipstick arrived. This was not at all what we men wanted, we were screaming for hundreds and thousands of other things and I don't know who asked for lipstick. I wish so much that I could discover who did it, it was the action of genius, sheer unadulterated brilliance. I believe nothing did more for those internees than the lipstick. Women lay in bed with no sheets and no nightie but with scarlet red lips, you saw them wandering about with nothing but a blanket over their shoulders, but with scarlet red lips. I saw a woman dead on the post mortem table and clutched in her hand was a piece of lipstick. At last someone had done something to make them individuals again, they were someone, no longer merely the number tattooed on the arm. At last they could take an interest in their appearance. That lipstick started to give them back their humanity.</blockquote>
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This story has stuck with me since I first read it, even as part of me doubted whether the lieutenant colonel had read the women’s reactions correctly. He was an outsider who, despite having seen firsthand the horrors of Bergen-Belsen, had not <i>experienced</i> them. And, to be blunt, he was a man; what could he truly know about the transformative powers of lipstick?</div>
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It wasn’t until I read Linda Grant’s wonderful book <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Thoughtful-Dresser-Adornment-Pleasures-Shopping/dp/1439158819/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1429122765&sr=8-1&keywords=the+thoughtful+dresser">The Thoughtful Dresser</a></i>—which, as it happens, quotes the same passage I’ve quoted here—that I read an account that satisfies those rather academic quibblings. (Eternal thanks to <a href="https://twitter.com/RagsII">Terri of Rags Against the Machine</a> for pointing me toward Grant’s work.) The story of Catherine Hill, a survivor of Auschwitz-Birkenau, is central to Grant’s book, and I don’t want to take away its remarkable narrative arc by saying too much here. What I will say is that at one point in the prison camp, Hill creates an ersatz fascinator out of the hem of her uniform’s dress in order to cover her ears, which were starkly exposed because of her forcibly shaved head. And when an SS officer asked her during roll call what exactly she thought she was doing, her response was simply that she wanted to look pretty. He laughed. But it was the truth: “They could have got rid of me right there and then, but they could not take away my desire to be feminine, and a woman. And my dignity, even in the most degrading situation…”</div>
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The entirely human wish to appear pretty is hardly the central meaning of what today symbolizes for Bergen-Belsen’s survivors, liberators, and descendants. And I’m wary of “excusing” my own investment in my beauty work by saying, <i>Well, women in the worst imaginable circumstances still cared, so…</i>. The circumstances are not remotely equatable. Still, the heart of these stories remains true: Vestiges of beauty can be powerful. They can be talismans of routine, of dignity, of what it means to be a woman. Of what it means to be human, and of what happens when the things that make us individuals are erased. And today, in remembering or learning about what happened in those camps (<a href="http://www.ushmm.org/wlc/en/media_list.php?MediaType=oh">these oral histories are a good start</a>) that’s one of the most important things we can remember.</div>
Autumn Whitefield-Madranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03379314479257695986noreply@blogger.com60tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5689865906513225949.post-2513247859276183312015-04-06T12:58:00.000-04:002015-04-06T12:58:16.822-04:00"Mad Men" Beauty Musings: Envy, Similarity, and "Modesty"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There’s much to say about <i>Mad Men</i> in general, and about last night’s last-season kickoff, and about the relationship between Joan and Peggy, and even about their conversation in the elevator (burn it down, Joan!). But what’s most relevant in this particular wheelhouse is one exchange that comes between Peggy and Joan after a business meeting in which a group of male colleagues make lewd jokes at the expense of Joan, specifically at the expense of her generous bustline: <div>
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<b>Peggy: </b>Should we get lunch?<br /><b>Joan:</b> I want to burn this place down.<br /><b>Peggy:</b> I know, they were awful, but at least we got a yes. Would you have rather had a friendly no?<br /><b>Joan: </b>I don’t expect you to understand.<br /><b>Peggy: </b><i>[With demonstrated doubt] </i>Joan, you’ve <i>never</i> experienced that before?<br /><b>Joan: </b>Have you, Peggy?<br /><b>Peggy:</b> I don’t know—you can’t have it both ways. You can’t dress the way you do and expect—<br /><b>Joan: </b>How do I <i>dress?</i><br /><b>Peggy:</b> Look, they didn’t take me seriously either.<br /><b>Joan: </b>So what you’re saying is, I don’t dress the way you do because I don’t look like you. And that’s very, very true.<br /><b>Peggy:</b> You know what? You’re filthy rich. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.</blockquote>
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(That last line, of course, is more cutting than Peggy could know, given <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/culture/culture-desk/joans-decision">how Joan became partner</a>.)</div>
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A few things:</div>
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<b>1)</b> I don’t like to focus on the jealousy/competition aspect of beauty, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist, and we see it here on both sides. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">The thing is, <a href="http://pwq.sagepub.com/content/early/2013/01/02/0361684312469792">research shows</a> that we tend to feel competitive with people who are <i>similar</i> to us, not people who are different. </span></b>It’s fun enough for fans to construct the <i>Mad Men</i> ladies as opposites—are you a Peggy or a Joan? a Betty or a Megan? a riding lawnmower or a rifle?—but they’re not. In particular, <b><span style="color: #274e13;">Peggy and Joan have far more similarities than differences</span></b>. They’re both hard workers, they’re both whip-smart, they’re both vulnerable, they both have their secrets, and the personality summation that Peggy’s date delivers to her over dinner could well apply to Joan, if not as consistently: “Johnny said you were the kind of girl who doesn’t put up with things. ... He said you were funny, and that you were fearless.”</div>
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There might be some cattiness, pain, or simple retaliation behind Joan’s cutting remark; none of us are above that. But I’d like to think that there’s more to her comment than that: Underneath the snipe is an acknowledgement that part of the difference in the ways they’ve each handled their careers stems from genetic fate (or rather, from the ways women were treated because of their bodies). Joan is saying, <i>If you looked like me you’d dress like me—and if I looked like you I might well have your wardrobe too. </i>She’s taking what Peggy posits as a duality and makes it clear that it’s anything but. And Peggy, in a different way, does the same, by pointing out that the men didn’t take either of them seriously, even though the crude comments at the meeting were aimed almost entirely at Joan. The women are clawing at each other on the surface, but the way in which they do it says that they know full well they’re in the same position.</div>
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<b>2)</b> One of my viewing companions last night, a busty lady herself, pointed out that when you’re built like Joan, it can be hard to wear <i>anything</i> that will safely ensure nobody will accuse you of dressing provocatively. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">Peggy can accuse Joan of dressing sexily even when, as in this scene, she’s wearing a tailored blouse that shows no cleavage because Joan’s build proves how judgmental the idea of “modesty” is. </span></b>Joan’s body puts her in a position of being accused of immodesty no matter what she wears, so why not wear what she looks good in? Peggy, on the other hand, with her slighter, more “modest” build, is put in the position of keeping the meeting as on track as she can—a task Joan herself is fully capable of but is barred from doing so because of her body. </div>
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It reminded me of <a href="http://whatwouldphoebedo.blogspot.com/">Phoebe Maltz Bovy</a>’s assertion in <a href="http://www.the-beheld.com/2013/02/the-two-standards-of-beauty.html">a guest post here</a> that “<i>style</i> and <i>build</i> have a way of getting mixed up, as though a woman chooses to have ‘curves’ on account of preferring to look sexy, or somehow magically scraps them if her preferred look is understated chic.” (To wit: <a href="http://www.villagevoice.com/slideshow/too-hot-for-citibank--30014985/4/#14">this photo series of Debrahlee Lorenzana</a>—who was fired from Citibank because she dressed too sexily—wearing various office outfits of hers. Like, you know, a turtleneck and slacks.) It’s tempting to say that the moral here is that Joan can’t win. But as Maltz Bovy points out, the construct actually serves as a reminder of just how ridiculous beauty standards are. Burn the place down already, Joan.</div>
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<b>3) </b>What to say about Joan’s clothes-shopping binge toward the episode’s end? Instead of shrinking herself down after that awful meeting, she goes out and spends loads of money on fabulous new clothes. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">It’s a consumerist balm to being treated as a product for consumption, and I’d be misled to applaud this particular move as a you-go-girl proof of Joan’s resilience. But it’s interesting that we see Joan assert her buying power while wearing what is undoubtedly a provocative dress</span></b>—it’s her way of saying that she has no intention of taking Peggy’s tack to the workplace (which, as we’ve seen, would be a loser’s proposition for her anyway). </div>
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But there’s also something sadly hollow about it, magnified by her refusal to admit that she once worked there as a shopgirl. It reminds me of the first time I went shopping as “retail therapy”: I was 19 years old and had somehow landed a part-time concierge gig at a mid-level hotel, working the VIP lounge. A client there had actually pulled a move straight out of a bad movie: He put his hand on mine and gave me his room number, the implication being that I should pay him a visit once my shift ended. Part of me was thrilled by this—this happened to people in bad movies!—but I was also nauseated by it. It was my second job ever besides babysitting, and I was proud of the fact that I’d gotten it, and I knew I’d been assigned the VIP lounge because I had an accommodating nature. But it was also the first time I’d felt the flipside of what others might assume of me because of that accommodating nature—until then it had just earned me accolades as a “good girl.”</div>
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Anyway, the next day I felt possessed to buy a dress. It was a specific desire: I wanted to buy not just clothes, but <i>a dress</i>, and I uncharacteristically skipped the sales rack and perused the new offerings with intent. It wasn’t until years later that I identified the impulse: I didn’t just want a dress, I wanted to <i>spend money on myself</i>. I wanted to spend something relatively intangible to get something tangible in return; I wanted proof of my power, and since I’d just felt my meager power slip in a professionalized context, it made sense that I wanted that proof in the form of something that context rewarded me with. </div>
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We know that Joan is a bit of a clothes horse (she did, after all, go to retail when she had to get a new job), which I wasn’t when I wandered into the mall Gap in 1995 the morning after a being the target of a sleazy episode. But just as my desire for a new dress had nothing to do with why I bought it, that’s not why we saw Joan buying up the store: It’s her clutch at power, rendered in a language she can speak without breaking a sweat. We’ve seen Joan work and grow and prosper in a variety of ways, but going back to this lesson—looking your best will get you the best—is always going to be a place of comfort for her. The irony is that it’s a lesson that, for Joan, also leaves scratches long and deep.</div>
Autumn Whitefield-Madranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03379314479257695986noreply@blogger.com51tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5689865906513225949.post-5589043443584623712014-10-22T10:05:00.001-04:002014-10-22T10:05:49.346-04:00The "Man's Woman," the "Woman's Woman," and Other Apocryphal Ladies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">These women look suspiciously alike, eh?</span></i></div>
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Some years ago, my then-boyfriend said that <b><span style="color: #274e13;">Drew Barrymore was the ultimate “woman’s woman.”</span></b> His reasoning: She stars in romantic comedies (née “chick flicks”), she seems like she might be vaguely feministy/ish (because of <i>Charlie’s Angels</i>, I guess?), she has her own cosmetics line, and her production company is named <i>Flower Films</i>, for crying out loud. Most of all, he claimed, “no men like her.” </div>
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Now, I was willing to buy most of this, even though it was clear that by “no men like her” he simply meant <i>he</i> didn’t like her: A chronicle of one rando dude’s quest to go on a date with Drew Barrymore <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0378407/">became a successful documentary</a>, she was perpetually on those “Hottest Celebrities” lists from various men’s websites until she “aged out” by hitting thirtyish. But I understood the larger point. Drew catered to women in her work, and she didn’t seem to need to cater to men. She could be pretty and charming and normal-ish and not particularly worry about being sexy—partly because she <i>is</i> sexy, but mostly because she’d already tried on the vixen persona in her earlier years and found it wanting (<i>Poison Ivy</i>, anyone?). So, sure, she’s a woman’s woman.</div>
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I recalled this exchange years later, when talking with a friend about what exactly the term “man’s woman” meant. I defined it as a woman who had an undeniable sex appeal regardless of her physical beauty, but I’d recently heard it defined as a woman who impresses men by eating <i>the whole cheeseburger basket </i>while appearing to stay effortlessly thin (and, presumably, hot). This friend then defined it as someone who seemed likeable enough and attractive enough that pretty much any straight guy on the planet would be happy to take her out, without being intimidated by her. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">As an example of the prototypical "man's woman" she chose—you guessed it—Drew Barrymore. </span></b></div>
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There’s plenty more to be said about Barrymore, but let’s give the poor lass a rest, and instead look at the larger question here: <b><span style="color: #274e13;">What is a “man’s woman”? What is a “woman’s woman”?</span></b> We hear these terms being thrown around, and perhaps we’ve used them ourselves, but what do they <i>mean?</i></div>
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I started poking around for the historical uses of these terms, and it turns out I’m hardly the first to seek out their precise definitions. “There are certain questions... [that] reappear at more or less irregular intervals, like comets, to throw the challenging gauntlet at the feet of every thinker not totally devoid of intelligence,” wrote an anonymous editor in <a f="false'" href="http://books.google.com/books?id=rmtAAQAAMAAJ&pg=RA1-PA534&dq=%22man%27s+woman%22+%22woman%27s+woman%22&hl=en&sa=X&ei=iqIyVIPgEYa5yQT6g4H4DA&ved=0CB0Q6AEwAA#v=onepage&q=%22man" s="" woman="">an 1891 volume of <i>Current Literature</i></a>. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">“Of these queries none are more persistent and aggressive than that which concerns the difference between a ‘man’s woman’ and a ‘woman’s woman,’ and none have, from the woman’s point of view, been more weakly or illogically argued.”</span></b> Even in <i>those</i> ’90s, the question was a stumper. </div>
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According to that editorial—which is a thoroughly fascinating and remarkably relevant read—the “man’s woman” is a naturally charming woman who is “interested intelligently and sincerely in the things dear to the heart of man,” though she mustn’t be too knowledgeable about those things, lest she outshine him. The “woman’s woman” comes in two breeds: the “sympathetic” type, who, with her knowledge of needlework and social niceties, seems a mix of Martha Stewart and Jacqueline Kennedy, and the “strong” type—the “poet, thinker, leader, reformer” that inspires women and girls to go beyond the domestic sphere. Poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning was listed as the classic example in 1891; today it would probably be someone more like Gloria Steinem or, hell, Lady Gaga.</div>
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<b><span style="color: #274e13;">So we’ve got the “man’s woman” and two types of “woman’s woman,” loosely defined as the <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/584441-men-always-say-that-as-the-defining-compliment-don-t-they">Cool Girl</a>, the Good Wife, and the Badass. But indeed, like a comet, the question keeps coming back, and over the past 120 years plenty have given it a stab.</span></b> Over the years, curious readers have learned that the “man’s woman” may be spotted by her candor and fondness for playing rough in friendships—or she may be spotted not because men like her all that much, but <a href="http://archive.spectator.co.uk/article/2nd-november-1907/26/the-women-that-women-like">because women don’t like her at all</a>. Or maybe you identify her by the way she sits <a a="" creature="" different="" f="false'" href="http://books.google.com/books?id=-mtIAAAAYAAJ&pg=PA292&lpg=PA292&dq=%22the+man%27s+woman+is+a+quite+different+creature%22&source=bl&ots=H8wdb92EwS&sig=j4A7Z1dBFq-v2BVDSEITZuLhj5U&hl=en&sa=X&ei=3a9HVIn9BpTCsATZr4KgDQ&ved=0CB4Q6AEwAA#v=onepage&q=%22the%20man" is="" quite="" s="" woman="">“listlessly”</a> among other women, but when a man comes along, she’s suddenly able to “brighten up and in a moment become brilliant and beautiful.” Maybe you know her because she’s <a href="http://www.people.com/people/archive/article/0,,20087986,00.html">Melanie Griffith, or Debra Winger</a>, or <a f="false'" href="http://books.google.com/books?id=Zh3TBtI75FMC&pg=PT240&dq=%22man%27s+woman%22+%22woman%27s+woman%22&hl=en&sa=X&ei=IJU2VImOHIzksASKuYGYBw&ved=0CDgQ6AEwBTgo#v=onepage&q=%22man" s="" woman="">Keith Richards’ girlfriend</a>. Perhaps you recognize her because she quietly marries and <a f="false'" href="http://books.google.com/books?id=a75LmSxPmYwC&pg=PA154&dq=%22man%27s+woman%22+%22woman%27s+woman%22&hl=en&sa=X&ei=wqYyVJ-mO4uqyATlhoHQBg&ved=0CDcQ6AEwBTge#v=onepage&q=%22man" s="" woman="">doesn’t cause her husband any trouble</a>—or because <a href="https://archive.org/stream/allsortsandcond03besagoog#page/n108/mode/2up">she’s a wretched wife who makes her husband miserable</a>.</div>
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As for the “woman’s woman”? She is docile, <a f="false'" href="http://books.google.com/books?id=2Mq2J9OpVDIC&pg=PA82&dq=%22woman%27s+woman%22+sentimental&hl=en&sa=X&ei=lAtFVP_lCfOAsQS10YDwDA&ved=0CE4Q6AEwCQ#v=onepage&q=%22woman" s="" sentimental="" woman="">inconsequential</a>, perhaps meek—or she’s <a f="false'" href="http://books.google.com/books?id=6EEOqbuB_G8C&pg=PA168&dq=%22man%27s+woman%22+%22woman%27s+woman%22&hl=en&sa=X&ei=BqgyVO2BJIyxyATrsILgAg&ved=0CE0Q6AEwCTgo#v=onepage&q=%22man" s="" woman="">a bigger threat to the patriarchy</a> than a man’s woman could ever be. She has unique skills in the workplace—hire a “woman’s woman” <a f="false'" href="http://books.google.com/books?id=P6w6AQAAMAAJ&pg=PA497&dq=%22man%27s+woman%22+%22woman%27s+woman%22&hl=en&sa=X&ei=iqIyVIPgEYa5yQT6g4H4DA&ved=0CCIQ6AEwAQ#v=onepage&q=%22man" s="" woman="">on your sales team</a> and you have insight into the heart of all women; put her on television and <a f="false'" href="http://books.google.com/books?id=4uICAAAAMBAJ&pg=PA44&dq=%22man%27s+woman%22+%22woman%27s+woman%22&hl=en&sa=X&ei=iqIyVIPgEYa5yQT6g4H4DA&ved=0CE4Q6AEwCQ#v=onepage&q=%22man" s="" woman="">you’ve got yourself a successful talk-show hostess</a>. (Note that this essay, penned in 1971, is about the lack of female hosts on late-night talk shows. <a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/alisonvingiano/cbs-allegedly-refused-to-even-consider-females-for-late-nigh">Sound familiar?</a>) She is a <a f="false'" href="http://books.google.com/books?id=a75LmSxPmYwC&pg=PA154&dq=%22man%27s+woman%22+%22woman%27s+woman%22&hl=en&sa=X&ei=wqYyVJ-mO4uqyATlhoHQBg&ved=0CDcQ6AEwBTge#v=onepage&q=%22man" s="" woman="">hero, not a heroine</a>, or <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/476607573038116388/">maybe she’s just plain gay</a>. Hell, her appeal to other women might lie in the fact that <a f="false'" href="http://books.google.com/books?id=VCQzAQAAMAAJ&pg=PA40&dq=%22woman%27s+woman%22+sentimental&hl=en&sa=X&ei=lAtFVP_lCfOAsQS10YDwDA&ved=0CC0Q6AEwAw#v=onepage&q=%22woman" s="" sentimental="" woman="">she’s more like a man than a woman</a>. She is <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/home/you/article-1049670/Eva-Mendes-I-totally-womans-woman.html">Eva Mendes</a>, <a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/k/kimoralees531904.html">Kimora Lee Simmons</a>, <a f="false'" href="http://books.google.com/books?id=Zh3TBtI75FMC&pg=PT240&dq=%22man%27s+woman%22+%22woman%27s+woman%22&hl=en&sa=X&ei=IJU2VImOHIzksASKuYGYBw&ved=0CDgQ6AEwBTgo#v=onepage&q=%22man" s="" woman="">Pattie Boyd</a>—who, let’s not forget, is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pattie_Boyd">primarily famous for marrying famous men</a>. She is <a href="http://www.accesshollywood.com/taylor-swift-im-a-girls-girl-singer-talks-star-girlfriends-selena-gomez-and-emma-stone-new-girl-and-hbos-girls_article_71667">Taylor Swift</a>.</div>
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Ah, but then! What of the woman who is defined by falling outside these (handily ambiguous) parameters? <a href="http://news.google.com/newspapers?nid=1301&dat=19520728&id=DbdVAAAAIBAJ&sjid=5bADAAAAIBAJ&pg=4058,3009747">Eva Peron was neither</a> a man's woman nor a woman's woman; <a f="false'" href="http://books.google.com/books?id=DsRnApVNDFMC&pg=PA328&dq=%22man%27s+woman%22+%22woman%27s+woman%22&hl=en&sa=X&ei=IqgyVJ2gI4yryAS9zIHoAg&ved=0CEEQ6AEwBjgy#v=onepage&q=%22man" s="" woman="">Julie Christie is both</a>; <a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=uaAbAQAAIAAJ&q=%22man%27s+woman%22+%22woman%27s+woman%22&dq=%22man%27s+woman%22+%22woman%27s+woman%22&hl=en&sa=X&ei=kZQ2VO77Oa3jsASB4YHQCg&ved=0CDEQ6AEwBDgy">Nicole Kidman is both</a>—well, unless you ask Nicole herself (<a a="" f="false'" href="http://books.google.com/books?id=SvIDAAAAMBAJ&pg=PA13&lpg=PA13&dq=%22i%27m+a+woman%27s+woman%22&source=bl&ots=ZSeR0RDCPC&sig=NEv8qjyJSFTRI9Zgk4IZo9d6k_0&hl=en&sa=X&ei=4AxFVKOJGuznsASLtIKoCw&ved=0CFQQ6AEwDA#v=onepage&q=%22i" m="" s="" woman=""><i>she </i>thinks she’s a woman’s woman</a>). And wait—if <i>People</i> magazine says that <a href="http://www.people.com/people/archive/article/0,,20087986,00.html">Debra Winger was the man’s woman of the 1970s</a>, then why was the high-profile documentary about the paucity of women’s onscreen roles titled <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0318049/"><i>Searching for Debra Winger</i></a>? Could Winger be both too?</div>
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Actually, there’s nothing extraordinary about Winger in this regard, just as there’s nothing extraordinary here about Drew Barrymore, or Nicole Kidman, or Eva Peron, or any of the women who can’t be easily pigeonholed into one category or the other.<b><span style="color: #38761d;"> </span><span style="color: #274e13;">In truth, neither the “man’s woman” nor the “woman’s woman” exists.</span><span style="color: #38761d;"> </span></b>But the fact that we keep coming back to these terms despite never quite agreeing on what a “man’s woman” or a “woman’s woman” is reveals that collectively, we <i>want</i> them to exist, or at least we want the types to exist. Not just because we like to talk genderstuffs, but because we like to talk about women: Pit the “man’s wom<span style="line-height: 1.15;">an” against her counterpart—the ladies’ man—and she becomes even more amorphous. We know </span><i style="line-height: 1.15;">exactly</i><span style="line-height: 1.15;"> what a “ladies’ man” or a “man’s man” are, even when the particulars of their guises vary. Maybe it’s harder to pin down women’s women because women are supposedly so, you know, </span><i style="line-height: 1.15;">complicated</i><span style="line-height: 1.15;">. </span></div>
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But we can’t pin down the “woman’s woman” or her sister, because <b><span style="color: #274e13;">a formal classification of the two would end the conversation—and maybe <i>that’s</i> the top reason that we keep coming back to the question. </span></b>After all, whenever the moniker is used, it says less about the woman in question, and more about the speaker (and we never tire of saying things about ourselves). And again, this isn’t a new thought: “As a matter of fact, the expressions...will nearly always be found to be based upon the contempt that one sex has for the judgment and powers of discrimination of the other…”—this from <a f="false'" href="http://books.google.com/books?id=0rgmAQAAIAAJ&pg=PA546&dq=%22man%27s+woman%22+%22woman%27s+woman%22&hl=en&sa=X&ei=iqIyVIPgEYa5yQT6g4H4DA&ved=0CDgQ6AEwBQ#v=onepage&q=%22man" s="" woman="">another journal printed in the 1890s</a>. For a woman to call another of her kind a “woman’s woman” indicates an elevation of sorts, not only of the woman but of womankind—a “woman’s woman” is the prime example of her species, and what on earth would <i>men</i> know about <i>women</i> <span style="line-height: 1.15;">anyway?</span></div>
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Maybe we learn the most about the “man’s woman” and the “woman’s woman” when we look at the only thing that each of the varying definitions of the terms has in common: a belief that <b><span style="color: #274e13;">there’s something men want, and something women want—and ne’er the twain shall meet</span></b>. It’s uncomfortable from a gender-binary perspective, naturally. But it’s just as uncomfortable from where I’m sitting, as someone who firmly identifies as female and who has plenty of traits associated with femininity. <span style="line-height: 1.15;">For whenever I’ve tried to puzzle out which camp I might belong in, neither one has felt satisfying. The “man’s woman” and the “woman’s woman” are each <i>reactors</i>, not actors in and of themselves. </span><b style="line-height: 1.15;"><span style="color: #274e13;">Each of these women fills the needs of others</span></b><span style="line-height: 1.15;">, even the heroic sort of “woman’s woman” who inspires other women—she’s still cast in the terms of others’ needs, not her own. </span></div>
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That’s how humanity works—we all react to one another, we’re social creatures—so in some ways it’s not all that problematic. But the fact that we’ve come up with dozens of ways to figure out how women might fill the needs of others by being a “man’s woman” or a “woman’s woman” says that we’re still more willing to cast women in supporting roles, not leads. That’s changing every day, of course. Now let’s let the “man’s woman” and the “woman’s woman” be part of that change by disappearing.</div>
Autumn Whitefield-Madranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03379314479257695986noreply@blogger.com124tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5689865906513225949.post-62347375012215686012014-10-01T10:28:00.000-04:002014-10-01T10:28:28.910-04:00Laurie Penny's "Unspeakable Things"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="vertical-align: baseline;">There are two reasons it’s taken me longer than it should have to write out my thoughts on Laurie Penny’s newest book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Unspeakable-Things-Sex-Lies-Revolution/dp/1620406896/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1412172580&sr=8-1&keywords=unspeakable+things"><i>Unspeakable Things: Sex, Lies, and Revolution</i></a>. The first is technical: I’ve been ostriching from pretty much everything for the past couple of months while working on other projects, and am only now coming back to things like blogging and social media and leaving the house. </span></div>
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<span style="vertical-align: baseline;">The second is personal: It made me mad.</span></div>
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<span style="vertical-align: baseline;">At this point, for readers who—we’ve all done it—prefer not to voyage beyond the first two paragraphs of a piece, allow me to assure you that Penny’s book is excellent. But it might make you mad, and not only at the patriarchy. If you’re a good girl, it might make you a little mad at that very fact.</span></div>
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<span style="vertical-align: baseline;">But I’m getting ahead of myself here. Instead, let’s begin where Penny begins in chapter 1: a treatment ward for women with severe eating disorders. Much of what has been written about feminism and eating disorders frames these diseases inaccurately, linking a girl’s refusal to eat to her wish to be more like the skinny ladies in all the magazines, the takeaway being that an unrealistic beauty standard—which, yes, is a feminist concern—is to blame. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">As Penny puts it about the cultural puzzlings over eating disorders, “The best answer we seem to have come up with is ‘magazines.’ This says rather more about what society thinks goes on in the minds of teenage girls than it does about the cause of an epidemic…” </span></b>In fact, when I went through an outpatient treatment program for my own disordered eating, I had a definite idea of the kinds of women I would find there. They would be smart overachievers, sure, but they would be caught in the tragic game of trying to be what our culture expects of women—thin, pretty, docile—and isn’t it a shame that they don’t recognize their own potential? They wouldn’t be feminists, they wouldn’t be rebels, and they sure as hell wouldn’t be politicized. And I sure as hell was proven wrong on my first day there. </span></div>
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<span style="vertical-align: baseline;">I don’t want to glamorize women with eating disorders for their rebellion any more than I want to glamorize them for thinness. But when I read one particular passage from <i>Unspeakable Things</i>, the chill of recognition slithered through me: </span></div>
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<span style="vertical-align: baseline;">“In Italy, there is a tradition called ‘<i>sciopero bianco</i>’—the white strike. In English-speaking countries, it is known as work-to-rule. Workers who are not permitted to strike fight their bosses by doing only what is required of them—to the letter. Nurses refuse to answer phones that ring at 17:01. Transport workers make safety checks so rigid that the trains run hours behind schedule. Eating disorders and other forms of dangerous self-harm are to riots in the streets what a white strike is to a factory occupation: women, precarious workers, young people and others for whom the lassitudes of modern life routinely produce acute distress and for whom the stakes of social non-conformity are high, lash out by doing only what is required of them, to the point of extremity. Work hard, eat less, consume frantically; be thin and perfect and good, conform and comply, push yourself to the point of collapse. … We all followed the rules, sufferers seem to be saying—now look what you made us do.”</span></blockquote>
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Penny understands eating disorders as a form of rebellion because she’s been there, and not because she was quite literally dying to be thin. Her clear-minded thinking that cuts to the quick allowed her to regard her time in treatment as instructive in the politicization that now characterizes much of her work. And it’s important to understand that the rebellion of eating disorders is not in refusing to eat, but in its angry nod to the good girl. <i>You want me to be a good girl? Fine, I’ll be a goddamn perfect girl. Fuck you, I’ll disappear, how’s that?</i> It’s a warped logic, sure, but eating disorders are warped. It’s logic all the same.</span><br />
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So at some point around here in my reading I began to get mad. I got mad because I’ve spent years trying to understand my own eatingstuffs and my own warped logic, and had come to categorize my improper behaviors as symptomatic of my chronic good-girl-ism: rule-following to the extreme, but with compliance, not the whiff of rebellion, as the goal. Good-girl-ism had become a part of my own personal mythology to the point where I didn’t question it anymore, which means, of course, that I have an investment in protecting the good girl. For <b><span style="color: #274e13;">I still think of myself that way—a good <i>girl</i>, despite being 38 years old, which should tell us something about exactly how much power we believe the good girl can ever truly have.</span></b> I do what is expected of me, and indeed, of women in general. I cooperate, I play nice, I am a member of the getalong gang. And part of this shows up in the dress-up clothes of my own politicization: I couldn’t get on board with the whole <a href="http://www.slate.com/blogs/xx_factor/2014/08/08/ironic_misandry_why_feminists_joke_about_drinking_male_tears_and_banning.html">“ironic misandry”</a> thing because so much of my energy as a feminist over the years has gone into turning cartwheels for men in an attempt to prove to them that feminism isn’t the big, bad, scary monster their bro-friends might have painted it to be. No, feminism can be friendly! Feminism is concerned about men too! Feminists give better head!</div>
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And, you know, all of this is true (ahem). But the ring of recognition I felt upon reading Penny’s idea of eating disorders as a “white strike” against the constraints placed upon women’s social roles was too true to ignore. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">If a beating heart of anger and rebellion—not, as I’d construed it, good-girl-ism—was underneath my own disordered eating all along, then what did that say for the good-girl ways I’d championed feminism for years?</span></b></div>
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What Laurie Penny calls for in this book is mutiny. Mutiny against the mythology of “falling apart elegantly,” as we’ve constructed eating disorders to be; mutiny against the careful persona curation of social media, which so many women have mastered because we’re so used to being thought of as commodities. Mutiny for sex workers and men who are tired of the patriarchy too and for women who question the institutionalization of “love,” and all of the other people whom Penny addresses in the bulk of the book—which is about far more than eating disorders and good girls, and functions much as a primer on where feminism could go if we want it to. Mutiny against the idea that for queer youth, “It Gets Better” should be sufficient protection in a world where it should <i>be</i> better now. Mutiny against feminism as a show pony strictly for women who have the time, money, and social platform to be the public face of feminism.</div>
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I’m a believer in the idea that it takes all types to create lasting social change. It takes palatable feminism, it takes unpalatable feminism. It takes radical feminism, it takes theft of the master’s tools, it takes the servants living in the master’s house who realize how nice it is once their quarters are dismantled. It takes “bro feminists” and humanists and sassy little girls, and the quiet ones too. It takes mutiny. Reading <i>Unspeakable Things</i> didn’t make me think otherwise, not exactly. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">What it did do was make me question the connection between “good girl feminism” and “good girl”-ism itself. </span></b>Specifically, what our love of the good girl means for those moments when feminism becomes hip enough to, say, be a focal point of something like the MTV Video Music Awards. I’ll always be glad to see pretty much anyone call themselves a feminist, and as Penny writes in a section that serves as a treatise on The Slut, I’m wary of drawing distinctions between “good” and “bad” women, feminists included. </div>
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But when you immerse yourself in the possibility of mutiny—even if only for as long as it takes you to read <i>Unspeakable Things</i>—it makes you a bit testy at the limits of what face of feminism is likely to be beamed onto the main stage. And it might even make you a little bit testy at the ways you’ve been complicit in those limits, without ever having intended to do so.</div>
Autumn Whitefield-Madranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03379314479257695986noreply@blogger.com58tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5689865906513225949.post-73387472098528575672014-08-21T11:26:00.000-04:002014-08-21T11:26:58.378-04:00Because You're Worth It: Masstige and Bargain Beauty<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">The price may be right, but what else drives your beauty buys?</span></b></div>
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I’ve been thinking about <a href="http://www.the-beheld.com/2014/08/beauty-and-inconspicuous-consumption.html">high-end beauty products as inconspicuous consumption</a>, and what that means for displays of wealth among women. In doing so, I ignored the other end of the scale: bargain beauty products. The idea I was exploring a couple of weeks ago was that high-end beauty products signaled an <i>investment</i> in beauty, as opposed to a temporary gussying-up; think top-notch dermatology and expensive retinol creams, the benefits of which only really show up after long-term use (and therefore hundreds—or thousands—of dollars in). <b><span style="color: #274e13;">But it’s not like buying bargain beauty products means that you <i>don’t</i> regard beauty as an investment. </span></b>Most obviously, it could be that your budget is limited (which, given the price of even the most basic quality anti-aging cream, is probably the case for most of us).<div>
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More interesting to talk about, though, is <b><span style="color: #274e13;">the idea of bargain beauty as a different sort of investment. </span></b>Consumer research repeatedly shows that bargain shopping—in this case, drugstore or 99-cent-store beauty products instead of Sephora or department stores—actually brings a similar sense of reward as luxury shopping. </div>
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Perceived value is one of the highest predictors of consumer satisfaction. Think, for example, of a time you’ve paid full price for something only to see it go on sale the next day. Even if you were satisfied at the time of purchase, you might well become retroactively dissatisfied because you felt like you got ripped off. In other words, your perceived value of the item dropped. (It’s actually so harmful to consumer satisfaction that some chain stores will refund customers the difference of a full-price item if it goes on sale within a certain time window of the initial purchase.)<b><span style="color: #274e13;"> When you’re buying a $90 jar of skin cream, it means that you feel that the value of the cream is worth the price tag—maybe it’s actually no better than the $12 cream at the drugstore, but you believe it is, which, in essence, makes it “worth it.” But a similar logic applies to the $12 cream: If you believe it does what you want it to do, the perceived value of the item may be more than the twelve bucks you shelled out for it. </span></b>You might even take pleasure in believing that you’re able to see through (what you perceive as) gimmickry of high-end products. It’s seemingly the inverse of the pleasure another woman might take in opening up a Chanel compact, seeing those interlocking Cs, and feeling as though she’s made an investment in herself. In truth, though, it’s the same thing: It temporarily heightens the way you feel about yourself.</div>
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[Tangent that has little to do with beauty but everything to do with women: This heightened self-concept is theorized to be behind what drives bargain shoppers, specifically the “coupon queens” along the lines of the people in the TV show <a href="http://www.tlc.com/tv-shows/extreme-couponing"><i>Extreme Couponing</i></a>. At least <a href="http://www.acrwebsite.org/search/view-conference-proceedings.aspx?Id=6945">one consumer researcher</a> links the sense of competence one can derive from bargain shopping to feeling a lack of competence in more traditional ways, like the workplace. Hence “coupon moms”: Full-time homemakers don’t get annual reviews (at least, I <i>hope</i> not), but if you can point to the savings you’ve made by clipping coupons, I imagine that would bring a direct, empirical sense of competence that’s somewhat different from the other forms of competence homemakers display. My mother’s couponing drove me nuts as a teenager, but I get it now, and not only because I recognize it as a branch of home economics. Anyway.]</div>
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In fact, the temporary self-esteem boost one gets from bargain shopping becomes exaggerated when the shopper is able to attribute the bargain to her own skills—for example, proffering a coupon, or bargaining for a lower price, as opposed to simply purchasing a low-cost item. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">Another way a shopper might attribute a bargain to her own skills is recognizing a good deal when she sees it. Enter “masstige” products</span></b>, i.e. products meant to be seen as prestige products that are sold at price points affordable to the masses. For New Yorkers, masstige is most evident in the aisles of Duane Reade drugstores, which in the past few years has revamped its beauty section to look more like something you’d see at Sak’s Fifth Avenue—softer lighting, island displays, skin care consultants. Along with that comes products that are more expensive than usual drugstore fare but still less than what you’d pay were you actually at Sak’s. (I’m a fan of a retinol cream I buy at Duane Reade that features sleek packaging and sounds all fancy but is just a brand of L’Oréal. A brand that costs three times as much as products labeled “L’Oréal,” <i>mais oui</i>.)</div>
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Indeed, masstige beauty is growing, with <a href="http://www.self.com/flash/beauty-blog/2014/08/cvs-launches-145-masstige-beauty-products-one-time/">CVS entering the market</a>, and with <a href="http://euromonitor.typepad.com/files/strategies-to-succeed-in-the-fast-evolving-premium-beauty-market-sample.pdf">other major drugstore chains already in it</a>. It’s gotten to the point where <a href="http://euromonitor.typepad.com/files/strategies-to-succeed-in-the-fast-evolving-premium-beauty-market-sample.pdf">premium beauty brands are seeing masstige as a threat</a> that supposedly confuses consumers into thinking they’re getting a higher-quality product than they actually are. Which brings us back to square one: <b><span style="color: #274e13;">The more that high-end beauty brands try to set themselves apart by seeming exclusive and catering to a consumer who sees purchasing that brand as evidence of her good taste, the more that reinforces the appeal of masstige products to a somewhat different consumer, who sees purchasing a masstige brand as evidence of her good sense. </span></b>The masstige consumer might look at the prestige buyer and think, <i>What a fool</i>; the prestige buyer might look at the masstige buyer and think, <i>Poor thing</i>, or simply assume that the masstige route is a financial choice, ignoring or oblivious to its nonfinancial rewards.</div>
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<br /><br />It’s gotten me thinking about what drives my own beauty purchases. My bathroom cabinet has everything from $2 Wet ‘n’ Wild eyeliner to masstige products like my retinol cream to items on the lower end of the prestige market. (I try not to pimp out brands here but honestly, Smashbox’s BB cream is friggin’ fantastic, and who am I to keep it secret?) And sure enough, I receive a different sense of satisfaction when I buy items at different points on the spectrum: I feel savvy when I buy a cheap product that does what I want it to do; I feel like I’m making an investment in self-care when I shell out for my retinol; I feel like a clever beauty researcher when I buy my BB cream, knowing that I’ve tried less expensive brands and that the high-ish price actually buys quality in this case. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">What nonfinancial rewards are most likely to drive your own beauty purchases? Feeling like you’re getting a deal for less than someone else might pay for a similar result? Feeling like you’re making an investment in your appearance? </span></b>Feeling like you’re treating yourself? Or do you skip most products altogether because none of those rewards are appealing to you?</div>
Autumn Whitefield-Madranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03379314479257695986noreply@blogger.com72tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5689865906513225949.post-37453762462147631612014-08-01T09:15:00.001-04:002014-08-01T09:15:19.868-04:00Beauty and (In)conspicuous Consumption<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">It wasn't just her last name that marked Gloria Vanderbilt as one of <i>those</i> Vanderbilts.</span></b></div>
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I've been enjoying participating in this month's structured conversation on visual persuasion and the state at <a href="http://www.cato-unbound.org/">Cato Unbound</a>. Virginia Postrel (whom regular readers will recall authored the excellent <i><a href="http://vpostrel.com/power-of-glamour">The Power of Glamour: Longing and the Art of Visual Persuasion</a></i>, which <a href="http://www.the-beheld.com/2013/11/the-power-of-glamour.html">I reviewed here</a>) wrote the <a href="http://www.cato-unbound.org/2014/07/07/virginia-postrel/no-fireworks-fourth-july">lead essay</a>, in which she argues for the use of glamour, iconography, and visual appeals in politics; <a href="http://cultureby.com/">Grant McCracken</a>, <a href="http://thefifthwave.wordpress.com/">Martin Gurri</a>, and I were invited to write responses from there. Much of the discussion is relevant to readers here, particularly McCracken's <a href="http://www.cato-unbound.org/2014/07/21/grant-mccracken/glamour-sprezzatura">musings on sprezzatura</a> and Postrel's <a href="http://www.cato-unbound.org/2014/07/21/virginia-postrel/deadly-quest-grace">thoughts on the true danger of glamour</a>—and, hopefully, my own thoughts on <a href="http://www.cato-unbound.org/2014/07/11/autumn-whitefield-madrano/smile-you-are-cnn">what the faces of our politicians say about the nature of beauty</a>, the <a href="http://www.cato-unbound.org/2014/07/29/autumn-whitefield-madrano/glamour-therapeutic-narrative">glamour of the therapeutic narrative</a>, and <a href="http://www.cato-unbound.org/2014/07/18/autumn-whitefield-madrano/unseemly-luxuries">why we appreciate glamour in politics but eschew luxury</a>.<br />
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This last essay brought up inconspicuous consumption—an inversion of Thorstein Veblen's theory of conspicuous consumption that shows how the truly wealthy will invest in less-visible goods (such as travel and education) and that it's actually people with less net worth who spend more on visible goods like expensive cars, jewelry, and clothing. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">It made me wonder about the money people spend on beauty, and whether beauty goods are examples of inconspicuous consumption, or examples of the opposite.</span></b> After all, our faces and bodies are the most visible things we own—but most run-of-the-mill beauty products are meant to be inconspicuous, and few advertise themselves as markers of wealth once on the wearer. Sure, a Chanel lipstick says its owner is able to spend $35 on a tube of wax, but freshly applied it's not going to look much different than the $7 tube from the drugstore.<br />
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The more I think about it, the more I wonder whether beauty work is coded similarly to other forms of inconspicuous consumption. Education is a prime example of inconspicuous consumption—higher education costs money, and while financial aid makes it possible for plenty of bright, poor high school seniors to go to Ivy League schools, you're also unlikely to run across a whole lot of Rockefellers at the local community college. And going to the sort of schools where you <i>do</i> find Rockefellers gives you a level of cultural capital you're going to have a harder time finding in other ways—you pick up on certain language patterns, cultural references, experiences, and fashions that mark you as having access to a certain social class, regardless of what your paycheck says. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">Prestigious education is a long-term investment, in other words, and we understand such forms of investment as being correlated with wealth</span></b>, even more so than we correlate it with being merely rich. (As <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4m37JkkGjAY">Chris Rock puts it on wealthy vs. rich</a>: "Here's the difference: Shaq is rich. The white man who signs his checks is wealthy.")<br />
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I don't want to lapse into stereotypes about Upper East Side housewives with their plastic surgery and expensive hairdos. But the fact is, there is a marked difference in the faces of women walking down East 86th Street in Manhattan and 86th Street in Queens, you know? <b><span style="color: #274e13;">Wealth enables you not to buy expensive foundation, but to buy the kind of skin creams, personalized skin care and access to the world's best dermatologists, and long-term know-how that enables a wealthy older woman to have the sort of look that marks her as a wealthy older woman. That is:</span></b> <b><span style="color: #274e13;">Wealth enables you to treat beauty as a long-term investment. </span></b>You see something similar with hair care—maintaining the kind of cut and color that you see among the wealthy takes time and money, both of which are in shorter supply among working-class folks. A working-class woman might well have a fantastic haircut and do a nice job with hair color from a box, but keeping it up week after week is going to be a lot harder for her than it is for her wealthier counterpart.<br />
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Any reader of ladymags has seen enough of those "$10 face vs. $100 face: Can you tell the difference?" features to know that it's easy enough to replicate the look of pricey makeup. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">But makeup isn't an investment in a person's looks; it's short-term, washed off at the end of the day. Skin care, body care, hair care—just the repetition of the word <i>care</i> here shows that these forms of beauty work require something more than just slapping down some money at the Clé de Peau counter.</span></b> (I mean, that terminology is deliberate, framing beauty work as "care" instead of as, well, work, but go with me here.) The word <i>care</i> reflects the investment factor—and sure enough, it's those forms of investment that mark the most visible differences between your average rich lady and your average not-rich one.<br />
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But that's just it: These beauty investments <i>are</i> visible; they're just not <i>obvious</i>. (And, of course, there are plenty of older women who never use an expensive skin cream in their life and have gorgeous skin, and vice versa.) Having good skin at age 60 due to expensive maintenance is hardly the same thing as driving around in a Rolls-Royce, but it is something we can look at and say, <i>Oh, well, that makes sense, she's wealthy—</i>especially when paired with other bodily markers of wealth like well-tailored clothes, certain kinds of shoes, etc. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">So we're back to the initial question: Are beauty products a form of conspicuous consumption, or of inconspicuous consumption? </span></b>I'm leaning toward the latter but would love to hear arguments for the former. Thoughts?Autumn Whitefield-Madranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03379314479257695986noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5689865906513225949.post-51956045928676426482014-07-10T13:29:00.001-04:002014-07-10T13:29:06.805-04:00Ladyfans: A Fairy Tale of the World CupA few quick thoughts on <a href="http://fashionista.com/2014/07/axelle-despiegelaere-loreal">this story</a>, of how Belgian soccer fan Axelle Despiegelaere, who attended the Belgium-Russia World Cup game, is now modeling for L'Oréal after being singled out in photos of the match:<br />
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You'll notice her unofficial fan page, created not long after the June 22 match, has more than 230,000 "likes," which I know can happen in a matter of hours but which is remarkable nonetheless. It's being spun as a fairy tale of sorts, along the lines of how film star Lana Turner was discovered at a Los Angeles drugstore. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">But I have to wonder how much this fairy tale is really a benefit to Despiegelaere, versus how much it's a benefit to L'Oréal. </span></b>By seizing upon something that has much of the world in a frenzy for a full month*, the company A) gets exposure without having to actually sponsor anything in the World Cup, B) gets to seem particularly savvy, and C) plants itself inside the fantasy of many a pretty young woman of being "discovered" simply by being herself. It gives us a backstory, and should the Belgian's contract land her in a major campaign, it lets viewers associate a neat story with their product (and if any particular viewer doesn't know the backstory, no worries; it's still a beautiful young woman). It's brilliant.<br />
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The story is actually just a commodified extension of the way games are broadcast. Sports games are televised with plenty of crowd shots interspersed, in the hopes of transporting the home viewer into the stadium; <b><span style="color: #274e13;">the painted faces of hopeful or disappointed fans are a stand-in for ourselves. By plucking a lovely young creature out of those fan shots, that sense of proxy is doubled, except now there's the commodification of fandom involved. And let's not forget that it's commodification of <i>female</i> fandom, </span></b>and that a solid third of the fan shots used in game broadcasts feature stunningly beautiful female fans (made all the easier by not only the internationalism of the tournament but by its location in Brazil, which exports many a young woman who suits the current tastes of the American modeling market). <b><span style="color: #274e13;">Turning women into one of the benefits of sports played by men has a long history, whether we're talking cheerleaders or the publicity given to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/WAGs">WAGs</a>. </span></b>This World Cup has seen the connection cemented with two Kia commercials that show Adriana Lima and other Brazilian beauties <a href="http://www.businessinsider.com/kias-world-cup-ad-with-adriana-lima-2014-6">seductively telling gaga male American football fans</a> that <i>their</i> football—that is, what Americans know as soccer—is superior. The commercials annoy me for any number of reasons, primarily that I doubt men watch any particular sport on the basis of how pretty its female fans are (and that it ignores how many women across the world love the sport), but it's not like the agency that created the ads dreamed up "sex sells" all on its own.<br />
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But Despiegelaere's story isn't being marketed to men; it's a product and story squarely aimed at women. This fairy tale—normal girl is spotted and becomes internationally famous—is one that fits particularly nicely with the reality-show ethos that we find ourselves surrounded with: Anyone can become famous if you land yourself in the right kind of outlet. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">Frankly, I'm wondering why we don't see this narrative exploited more often by beauty lines.</span></b> Who doesn't love a local girl made good, even if "local" is Belgium or Brazil? When it's a tale like this—of someone landing something generally seen as out of the reach of normal people, despite being a normal person herself—<i>everyone</i> becomes local.<br />
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<i>*Myself included, as evidenced by <a href="http://worldhaircup.com/">The World Hair Cup</a>. It's in the final round at last—<a href="http://kwiksurveys.com/app/rendersurvey.asp?sid=c0d4kfx75hlztty379114&refer=www%2Ethe-beheld%2Ecom">vote now! </a>Finalists are Côte d'Ivoire, Portugal, Chile, and Ghana. That's some remarkable hair.</i><br />
<br />Autumn Whitefield-Madranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03379314479257695986noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5689865906513225949.post-3714728549735359792014-07-01T07:32:00.001-04:002014-07-01T07:32:30.981-04:00The Party’s Girls and Party Girls: Negotiating Feminine Beauty in the Soviet Union <i>I'm pleased to welcome back <a href="http://ohitsjustawful.com/">Alana Massey</a> as a guest blogger—and with this inquiry into how Soviet life shapes the reputation of Eastern European women today, you'll be even more pleased. A graduate of New York University and Yale Divinity School, Alana has seen her work published at The Baffler, Religion Dispatches, Nerve, Jezebel, xoJane, Forbes, and more. You can follow her via her blog, </i><i><a href="http://ohitsjustawful.com/">Oh It's Just Awful</a>, </i><i>and <a href="https://twitter.com/AlanaMassey">Twitter</a>.</i><div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><a href="http://weirdrussia.com/2014/02/06/the-first-soviet-beauty-pageant/">The first Soviet beauty pageant.</a></b></span></div>
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Next to the Vanguard Theatre in the West Village, there is an unremarkable-looking salon that appears to be a single room devoted to manicures and pedicures to passersby who have never had a service at Spa Jolie. But ascend the narrow staircase to the second floor and the salon is revealed as a labyrinth of rooms and corridors for every imaginable beauty service performed by a staff primarily composed of Eastern European women. While many workers I’ve encountered in the cosmetic service industry are in a constant state of doublespeak over how pretty I am but how <i>desperately</i> I need a particular beauty treatment, <b><span style="color: #274e13;">I’m always pleasantly surprised when Spa Jolie staff upsell with no-nonsense pitches like, “Do it. It will make you look better,”</span></b> or, “It will make your boyfriend very happy.” </div>
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A combination of my first name, my bone structure, and my chosen neighborhoods has meant that I’ve been mistaken for Russian since my teens. When I’ve replied to Russian inquiries in English, I’ve received responses ranging from a curse on my parents for not teaching me the language of the Motherland to the shocked declaration, “But…but you’re so beautiful!” And while I half jokingly plan for the latter comment to have a spot in the highlight reel I’ll watch on my deathbed,<b><span style="color: #274e13;"> it is undeniable that features particular to Eastern European women are especially valuable in the post-Soviet era in beauty and fashion. </span></b></div>
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In a beauty culture that simultaneously celebrates the exotic but still defaults to white superiority, women with Slavic features have become a middle ground on which the industry relies to relay their messages about beauty ideals. By the mid-1990s, as young people from the former Soviet Union emigrated westward, the Crawfords were quickly replaced by Kurkovas on runways, with their razor cheekbones and the permanent pout of downward-slanting lips. But even outside of the fashion and beauty industries where only the tall and worryingly thin have a fighting chance, stereotypes abounded about hyper-feminine, appearance-obsessed Eastern European women. And statistics on per capita <a href="http://rbth.asia/culture/2013/03/01/russian_women_dont_compromise_on_beauty_44779.html">spending on cosmetics</a> in Russia support these tropes. </div>
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<b><span style="color: #274e13;">This would be unremarkable were it not for the persistent claims, both internally and externally, that Soviet ideology deemphasized the importance of gender-specific appearance in favor of a model where a person’s value corresponded to their contributions to socialist and communist ideals. </span></b>While part of the phenomenon can be attributed to the introduction of consumer goods to post-Soviet markets, it’s more than a capitalist inevitability that post-Soviet women—who lived in an era supposedly free of rigid beliefs about gender—came to be seen as the epitome of ultra-femininity. </div>
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Dr. Yulia Gradskova, a researcher at the University of Stockholm specializing in Soviet gender history, challenges the myth that Soviet women had neither obligation nor inclination to engage in beauty routines because Soviet ideology was focused on non-gendered qualities. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">Instead, she posits that the simultaneous demands of Soviet values of culture, good taste, and hygiene that were meant to deemphasize the individual’s gender still reinforced the need for beauty practices whose end result was still a consumer-oriented, western standard of feminine beauty.</span></b> Gradskova writes:</div>
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While peripheral areas struggled to introduce ‘cultured appearance’ to everyday practices, central publications on beauty and appearance focused increasingly on developing aesthetic notions of ‘good taste’. Thus, aesthetic, rather than overtly political, arguments were employed to explain the importance of ‘avoiding luxury’ and ‘loud’ styles as part of a discourse on ‘good taste’. </blockquote>
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In other words, look precisely cultured enough to embody our ideal but don’t look too ideal doing it. Subtlety, ladies. Subtlety. Yet in the absence of consumer products that made this standard attainable, daily beauty practices became expensive and often dangerous. Gradskova continues, <b><span style="color: #274e13;">“Throughout this era women had to cope with an ‘economy of shortage’ and ‘making themselves beautiful’ demanded a complex combination of scarce state resources and various forms of quasi-private entrepreneurship.” </span></b>Many reported great strain on time and finances to secure clothing that was considered attractive but not so appealing as to draw sexual attention. Expectations of aesthetic appeal were essentially an unfunded mandate to the Soviet woman, meaning that many relied heavily on the black market for fashion and cosmetics to complement their home rituals. </div>
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While many of their beauty concoctions like raw yogurt and strawberry face creams would find a home on Pinterest today, others were considerably more brutal. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">A friend’s mother who grew up in the 1960s in what is now Ukraine reported burning off leg hairs one at a time with matchsticks in the absence of razors. </span></b>Another woman with whom I discussed her beauty routine recalled applying oil mixed with ashes as eyeliner using a crudely sharpened wooden stick. Despite the frequently bitter cold, many women recounted eschewing unflatteringly thick tights for bare legs with a line drawn down the length of the leg to give the appearance of stockings—a practice also common in the United States in times of material shortages, though it was considerably less hazardous in Kansas than in Siberia. Gradskova’s subjects used burning hot tongs, corks, and pencils to curl and add volume to their hair. </div>
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<b><span style="color: #274e13;">But the physical danger of such practices was also painfully complemented by the social and political danger of appearing too feminized, and therefore sexualized, for Soviet standards.</span></b> (Not that this double bind was limited to life behind the Iron Curtain, <a href="http://roseaposey.tumblr.com/post/39795409283/judgments">as we still see today</a>.) In <a href="http://arizona.openrepository.com/arizona/handle/10150/291982">a discussion of Soviet beauty</a>, Anne Marie Skvarek writes about the pitfalls of being overly involved in one’s appearance: “A woman who spent time doing such things was deemed to be selfish, shallow, and therefore not putting the good of the collective above her personal desires.” The demands for ultra-specific beauty and hygiene standards even necessitated the creation of a state-owned and operated cosmetics company, the Tezhe trust. Marketing materials for Tezhe used feminine models in makeup and expensive fashions, but showed them being examples of productive labor. The “third shift” of beauty work reinforced a woman’s model citizenship, but only if it was done just-so. Soviet women sat permanently on an uncertain line between embodying Soviet state ideals and being active agents against those ideals through overtly sexual manifestations of femininity. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">A color-enhanced cheek was forever a brush stroke away from turning one of the Party’s good girls into a frivolous party girl. One had to always be <i>just attractive enough</i> for state purposes but never for one’s own personal purposes of attracting mates or simply feeling beautiful for its own sake.</span></b> The option of confronting state messages that dubiously linked things like tastefully made-up faces to good hygiene was undoubtedly out of the question. </div>
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Later decades in the Soviet era saw considerable relaxation in both the messages about gender expectations and around the flow of consumer goods during <i>Perestroika</i>, but <b><span style="color: #274e13;">messages about beauty were still cloaked in socialist-speak until the very end. The <a href="http://weirdrussia.com/2014/02/06/the-first-soviet-beauty-pageant/">first Soviet beauty pageant</a> was held in 1988, and while the women almost all appear in sexy apparel and heavy makeup, the event’s organizers insisted, “Our event is not commercial. It has an important, socially challenging objective</span></b>—to rescue women from urbanization, abandonment in the society and to raise the women value in the Soviet society.” Rescue by way of spandex leotard was just the last incarnation of the similar Soviet messages from the 1930s that connected culture and hygiene to waist-to-hip ratios. </div>
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It was not until the end of the Soviet Union that more overt expressions of femininity for the sake of sexual attractiveness reemerged. When they did,<b><span style="color: #274e13;"> it was not as much a sexual revolution as a sexual revelation about the long-standing but suppressed desire to be sexually appealing. As cosmetics flooded the market, many post-Soviet women began immediately overcompensating for both product scarcity and for repressed sexual expression. </span></b><i>Cosmopolitan</i> launched a Russian edition in May of 1994 <a href="http://insights.som.yale.edu/insights/can-you-say-cosmo-russian">to extraordinary financial returns</a> for its publisher as post-Soviet women flocked to its pages for beauty and sex tips. To some, <i>Cosmo</i> represents everything wrong with modern feminine ideals in the U.S., but for the post-Soviet woman it served as a manual for physical self-expression that had been aggressively policed by market and policies for the preceding decades. The following year, the magazine <a href="http://www.themoscowtimes.com/news/article/sex-and-sacrifice-for-russian-women/339972.html">reported on a survey</a> of 1700 Russian women that revealed that they valued their partner’s orgasm over all other sexual experiences. Today, Russian women reportedly spend <a href="http://fashion.telegraph.co.uk/beauty/news-features/TMG9756194/Beauty-from-the-BRIC-nations.html">as much as 60%</a> of their frequently modest incomes on beauty. Gender studies scholar Elena Zdravomyslova writes that Russian advertisements and entertainment continue to be guilty of "‘aggressively sexualizing’ the common idea of women's roles” in a society currently <a href="http://www.rferl.org/content/The_Iron_Ceiling_Sexism_Still_Strong_In_Russia/2161847.html">soaked in overt sexism.</a> It is this aggressive sexualization that has made Eastern European beauty both a source of mystery and of appeal to beauty consumers the world over. </div>
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During a Brazilian bikini wax at Spa Jolie, I asked my regular esthetician about the DIY nightmares I’d learned about and asked if she had practiced any of them. She laughed and said, <b><span style="color: #274e13;">“We did all sorts of stupid shit like that.” I joined her in laughter and agreement at how ridiculous it was, somehow missing the irony of identifying such practices as drastic while she slathered hot wax on the most sensitive region of my body</span></b> primarily for the benefit of a man whose feelings for me were lukewarm. I would later pay a premium for another employee to take a razor blade to the bottom of my feet so that no one in particular could feel the softness of the soles. </div>
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In a later moment of more thoughtful reflection, <b><span style="color: #274e13;">I considered whether the brutality to which women subject themselves for the sake of beauty is a universal experience in a world governed by the male gaze, and if the fixation of Soviet and post-Soviet women on beauty was simply another variation of women accommodating male desire. </span></b>Brutal instruments like hot wax and razor blades when used in the presence of cosmetology certificates and scented candles are, after all, still brutal instruments. But because the western beauty ideals that necessitate such instruments have persisted more or less uninterrupted, these regimens serve the fairly one-dimensional purpose of enhancing sexual visibility and viability. But to interrupt that purpose as Soviet norms did gave its reintroduction social and political dimensions that often go overlooked when there are easy jokes about superficial Russian women so readily available. </div>
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In the case of post-Soviet women, the commitment to hyper-feminine beauty functions simultaneously as rebellion against the paternalism of the Communist state and as a surrender to the patriarchal insistence on almost caricatured femininity. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">Her exaggerated beauty is both a move to reestablish her sexual self while also working to limit her to her actual sexual agency. Just as the Soviet woman’s beauty sat at the intersection of party ideals and sex appeal, the post-Soviet woman’s beauty represents liberation from one set of ideals only to become beholden to another set. </span></b>Western fetishization of her beauty—my own included—sees a smoldering, almost aggressive expression of feminine sexuality. The reality is a much more complex web of historical and contemporary social expectations of what purpose a woman serves and how she ought to look serving it. And serving it for everyone but herself. <br /></div>
Autumn Whitefield-Madranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03379314479257695986noreply@blogger.com38tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5689865906513225949.post-7698490696561541602014-06-30T10:58:00.000-04:002014-06-30T10:58:02.370-04:00Sorry, Ladies: There Won't Be a World Hair Cup for WomenOne of the questions we’ve frequently fielded here at <a href="http://www.worldhaircup.com/">World Hair Cup</a> headquarters is that of women: <b><span style="color: #274e13;">Will there be a World Hair Cup for the FIFA Women’s World Cup in 2015?</span></b> It would make sense, in some ways. Internationally speaking, women’s soccer still lags behind men’s in popularity and professional participation, but in the United States, that wasn’t true until fairly recently—until the dramatic surge of World Cup interest, I’m guessing that the names Abby Wambach, Hope Solo, Brandi Chastain, and Mia Hamm would’ve rang more bells in your average American household than Michael Bradley, Jermaine Jones, Mikkel Diskerud, and maybe even Clint Dempsey. And the iconic image of American soccer probably still remains <a href="http://ftw.usatoday.com/2013/10/14-years-ago-brandi-chastain-changed-u-s-soccer-won-a-world-cup-and-took-her-shirt-off">a triumphant, shirtless Chastain kneeling in the throes of victory after winning the 1999 Women’s World Cup in a penalty shootout.</a> Plus, given that the U.S. women’s team is internationally ranked far higher than the men’s team, it’s not unreasonable to think that at least in the States, popular interest in women’s soccer will mushroom now that men’s soccer has given it a nice nudge.<br />
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But will there be a women’s World Hair Cup? No. Why? <b><span style="color: #274e13;">Because the hair of women’s soccer is <i>boring</i>. </span></b>It’s perfectly lovely; certainly female footballers don’t have <i>bad</i> hair. But a ballot for a women’s World Hair Cup would be little more than row after row of ponytails, with some braids and dreadlocks popping up, but nothing truly remarkable. Compare the actual "Group of Hair Death" ballot with a prospective ballot featuring those countries' female national players:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilOmySf3z5vpAMmfT2RdVDjH7I3KvADkmjNm2w25GyHWNcNqoEb8_7aOi5yzilGnKjl9n8A2wmDwGGtH9DDqbNWqjyR3hgvrRwfSO1XbkgSlJQX_VUZdMhd60fJCjQsX3pXHkqHGM8YuAc/s1600/the-beheld_women's+soccer+hair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilOmySf3z5vpAMmfT2RdVDjH7I3KvADkmjNm2w25GyHWNcNqoEb8_7aOi5yzilGnKjl9n8A2wmDwGGtH9DDqbNWqjyR3hgvrRwfSO1XbkgSlJQX_VUZdMhd60fJCjQsX3pXHkqHGM8YuAc/s1600/the-beheld_women's+soccer+hair.jpg" height="422" width="440" /></a></div>
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Why would this be, when, generally speaking, women are given far more leeway than men to visually ornament themselves? Why doesn’t Hope Solo have her jersey number shaved into the back of her head? Why doesn’t Abby Wambach ever fashion her ‘do into a spiky gelled mohawk? Why do so few—if any—African female footballers utilize hair bleach to set themselves apart like their male counterparts? <b><span style="color: #274e13;">Women’s appearance is more policed than men’s, but when it comes to hair, the range of acceptability is far broader for women than it is for men. </span></b>Nobody thinks it’s unusual if a brunette lady goes blonde for a while. If it’s a dude, though—well, questions might well be asked about his sexuality. (In fact, questioning mainstream convention is exactly why some men dye their hair, as in the punk community.) Same with hair length: While long hair is still considered the default for women, a woman with short hair doesn’t get ridiculed for it, while a man with waist-length hair may as well change his name to <a href="http://www.bohomoth.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/10/tumblr_inline_mgxe9bKEUE1qbmns4.gif">Legolas</a>. Logically, then, we should be seeing <i>more</i> remarkable hair among female soccer players, not less.</div>
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But we don’t, and here’s why: <b><span style="color: #274e13;">If you’re a male athlete, you’ve excelled at a crucial aspect of conventional masculinity. You’re stronger than other men, faster than other men, more coordinated than other men</span></b>—you’re not the sissy who kept fumbling with the ball when playing catch with your dad. Nobody is going to question your masculinity. And if you’re a <i>professional</i> athlete, people will assume you’ve also nailed the “breadwinner” part of the masculine equation (<a href="http://www.eonline.com/news/336827/does-every-olympic-athlete-get-rich-now-or-just-michael-phelps">even if that’s not the case</a>). So you can do things like<a href="http://www.theguardian.com/football/2014/jun/15/world-cup-diary-2014-neymar-blond-hair-brazil"> dye your hair between games</a>, or <a href="http://a.espncdn.com/photo/2009/1127/pg2_a_beckerman_300.jpg">have hair that trails down your back</a>, or sport <a href="http://www.lematin.ch/sports/football/Serey-Die-passe-a-la-caisse/story/24350417">a fancifully bleached stripe</a>, or <a href="https://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20100129104337AALxqrE">hold back your flowing curls with a headband</a>, and you are still quantifiably a <i>dude</i>. </div>
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Enter the ladies. Sports aren’t exactly considered unfeminine, at least in the States, in large part thanks to the skyrocketing sports participation of women and girls after passage of <a href="http://www.titleix.info/History/History-Overview.aspx">Title IX of the Education Amendments of 1972</a>. (Participation still isn’t equal, <a href="http://www.nwlc.org/resource/next-generation-title-ix-athletics">it’s worth noting.</a>) But if you say the word <i>athlete</i>, most people will conjure up an image of a man. More to the point, <b><span style="color: #274e13;">there’s still a certain <i>way</i> to be a female athlete—namely, to adhere to codes of conventional femininity. </span></b>I mean, there’s a reason I know who Anna Kournikova is, despite me not following tennis and her not having won major singles titles. Even if a female athlete manages to become a public figure without exploiting her sexuality—which many of them do—she still has to play by the rules. She has to be tasteful: <a href="http://www.fifa.com/ballondor/photo/198/115/2/picture.html#1981152">She makes public appearances</a> with <a href="http://img.spokeo.com/public/900-600/alex_morgan_2012_08_08.jpg">light makeup</a> that implies the healthy, wholesome, freshly scrubbed life she supposedly lives. <a href="http://pac-12.com/article/2013/12/07/ncaa-womens-soccer-pre-championship-press-conference">She has neat hair</a>, not so overly styled as to imply vanity but not so understyled as to appear sloppy. She’s extra good to make up for being competitive, because we all know women aren’t supposed to compete; if they do, they certainly don’t run and sweat and fight and bleed for it. Yet that’s what you do on the pitch—there’s no way around it—and so to compensate, a female soccer player has to demonstrate exactly how much of a “good girl” she is. <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2014/06/27/justice/hope-solo-apology/">Even if she hasn’t been acting like one.</a> </div>
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There’s a twist here: sexual orientation. Sportswomen still have to fight the stereotype that they’re lesbians. That’s changing, both for straight athletes and gay ones (as evidenced by out athletes like <a href="http://www.npr.org/blogs/codeswitch/2014/04/08/300516000/coming-out-in-basketball-how-brittney-griner-found-a-place-of-peace">Brittney Griner</a> and <a href="http://www.nydailynews.com/sports/soccer/wambach-marriage-politics-article-1.1489949">Abby Wambach</a>). <b><span style="color: #274e13;">But the longtime association of queerdom and sporty ladies means that <a href="http://irs.sagepub.com/content/30/1/61.short">many straight female athletes report the need to signal their heterosexuality</a>—and what’s one of the easiest ways to do that? Look as conventionally ladylike as possible. Which means: Have longish, pretty, glistening hair. </span></b>Which means: No World Hair Cup for women. </div>
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A note of irony: I’ve argued that by dint of being an athlete, sportsmen’s masculinity is protected, so they can do nutty stuff to their hair and it’s just, <i>Oh, you boys.</i> But so far, this hasn’t translated into a protected space of sexual orientation. I mean, it’s 2014 and there’s exactly <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2014/05/10/us/football-michael-sam/">one</a> out player in the NFL, <a href="http://www.nba.com/2014/news/02/23/collins-makes-history.ap/">one</a> in the NBA, <a href="http://www.advocate.com/sports/2013/05/25/robbie-rogers-become-first-openly-gay-major-league-soccer-player">one</a> in the MLS, and <a href="http://sports.yahoo.com/news/why-mlb-is-ready-for-its-first-openly-gay-player-053645912.html">none</a> in the MLB. Many leagues have been taking administrative strides in support of gay athletes, and the shifting cultural landscape means we’ll probably be seeing more out players soon. But gay male players are subject to a stigma their female counterparts aren’t—Griner and Wambach both made news simply by being gay, but neither of them made the splash of Michael Sam’s drafting. </div>
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I’ve written a lot about the narrow spaces women are allowed to inhabit when it comes to their appearance: Be pretty but not threateningly so, care how you look but don’t be high-maintenance, etc. The World Cup—and, of course, the World Hair Cup (<a href="http://worldhaircup.com/">vote now! </a>Tomorrow’s the last day to vote in the Round of 16!)—are a handy reminder that the highwire isn’t just for women. <b><span style="color: #274e13;">With the remarkable hair of the men’s World Cup players, one of the narrow spaces men live in is adeptly maneuvered</span></b>, with everything from <a href="https://sports.yahoo.com/blogs/dirty-tackle/marouane-fellaini-will-cut-his-famous-hair-if-belgium-wins-world-cup-151128784.html">fluffy Afros</a> to <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sport/worldcup2014/article-2659395/Raul-Meireles-haircut-like-Robert-De-Niro-Taxi-Driver-shame-poor-Portugal-lift-against-Germany.html">beard-mohawk combos</a> to <a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/sport/football/worldcup/cristiano-ronaldo-haircut-did-portugal-star-zigzag-his-hair-in-tribute-to-erik-ortiz-cruz-9556333.html">creative razor lines</a>. It’s a construction of masculinity that has given these men a particular permission to sport the styles they do. But permission is something that can be withdrawn at whim. A right is not.</div>
Autumn Whitefield-Madranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03379314479257695986noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5689865906513225949.post-63457989182726980512014-06-27T16:05:00.000-04:002014-06-27T16:22:28.620-04:00Hello, Round of 16; Farewell, Hair We've Left Behind<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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After weeks of grueling follicular play, the Group Stage of the World Hair Cup has ended. Now, what you've been waiting for: the results.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixZYM5BJAuITuPdmQ9u5E8Ffa0UEoh2lB58ylHcYEoDXitc72NGKzYtJFIrbdNikXMZkO9XlKOAUoZSfdo0mA48L5LkJgBJHW1B8_josLs-MxLfght3YywWbMfkMd_wXN9dw6Ccm9zwpJS/s1600/world+hair+cup+group+stage+results.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixZYM5BJAuITuPdmQ9u5E8Ffa0UEoh2lB58ylHcYEoDXitc72NGKzYtJFIrbdNikXMZkO9XlKOAUoZSfdo0mA48L5LkJgBJHW1B8_josLs-MxLfght3YywWbMfkMd_wXN9dw6Ccm9zwpJS/s1600/world+hair+cup+group+stage+results.jpg" height="278" width="320" /></a></div>
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To address the most burning issue: <b><a href="http://kwiksurveys.com/app/rendersurvey.asp?sid=c0d4kfx75hlztty379114&refer=">You can vote in the Round of 16 here.</a></b> But first, a bit of ceremony. Congratulations are in order to all teams that advanced—after we bid a fond farewell to a few MVPs who were left behind:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh95aILK_sHQg5N02zppg9rwpy7MhdYgfITAyNdOcb4HTiBBx_Ac2UfUw7ggmDKoHFQr221s9AXNedSWs80os16m0XwZjb2q2WvyQb4C5gUsZxGApFx8GU5AwYKAOO1R3UB5czZ2DUc4AL/s1600/world+hair+cup+ochoa.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh95aILK_sHQg5N02zppg9rwpy7MhdYgfITAyNdOcb4HTiBBx_Ac2UfUw7ggmDKoHFQr221s9AXNedSWs80os16m0XwZjb2q2WvyQb4C5gUsZxGApFx8GU5AwYKAOO1R3UB5czZ2DUc4AL/s1600/world+hair+cup+ochoa.png" height="357" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><b>Guillermo Ochoa, Mexico. Position: Goalkeeper. Hair: Remarkable.</b></i></span></div>
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Guillermo Ochoa, your unbelievable saves against Brazil were echoed only by the glory of your hair. Disciplined by the headband, stunningly spontaneous in its tumble of curls, your hair, bobbing in the aftermath of dive after dive, was a lesson in splendor. Your World Cup journey continues; 'tis a pity your World Hair Cup voyage must stop here.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI1FpO4sMKpdodM5qo2iU8JMSDzJiwZKo6qrDGwig9MhakYFHtjU0P4xpyNZ7gHOS2A1_Sg3wph_qwCJOfJMiuQFX9-UiK_Uz9rleOGl0DKXUPGffq-9dniEx8aybGl9UA9P7YD3lARQPD/s1600/world+hair+cup+honda.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI1FpO4sMKpdodM5qo2iU8JMSDzJiwZKo6qrDGwig9MhakYFHtjU0P4xpyNZ7gHOS2A1_Sg3wph_qwCJOfJMiuQFX9-UiK_Uz9rleOGl0DKXUPGffq-9dniEx8aybGl9UA9P7YD3lARQPD/s1600/world+hair+cup+honda.png" height="321" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><b>Keisuke Honda, Japan. Position: Forward. Hair: Remarkable. </b></i></span></div>
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Keisuke Honda, as with your laser-like accuracy in the 16th minute against Côte d'Ivoire, your spiky blond head raised FIHA's expectations. Alas, as in soccer, hair: Your team's skills aren't yet to your level. Regretfully, we must bid you adieu.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9x0oB9i5SLn1eeeoC5Ff2KwdX4Yclfog0pnyarIY15YqiXPvaVLdoiSq8_MJsVwa2cgP0XkUJ3r_mcJw7yDkcoyVgAmZpHu-73FWNXC8GuQbDrqjC7NwwW7sM_wLEKucP-iBEQQtqJrPX/s1600/world+hair+cup+palacio.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9x0oB9i5SLn1eeeoC5Ff2KwdX4Yclfog0pnyarIY15YqiXPvaVLdoiSq8_MJsVwa2cgP0XkUJ3r_mcJw7yDkcoyVgAmZpHu-73FWNXC8GuQbDrqjC7NwwW7sM_wLEKucP-iBEQQtqJrPX/s1600/world+hair+cup+palacio.png" height="327" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><b>Rodrigo Palacio, Argentina. Position: Forward. Hair: <strike>Remarkable</strike> Extraordinary.</b></i></span></div>
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Rodrigo Palacio, a singular hair talent, you are the Lionel Messi of the Argentine hair team. Nature gave you hair that might not look like that of a hair champion—an unremarkable color, a texture lacking verve—and a similarly gifted player would be forgiven for looking at his hair and calling it quits, opting for a basic crewcut. Not you, Palacio. You have the imagination, the vision, and the strength of character to pave your route to an unmistakable hair win. And just as with Messi, your team will never equal your exquisite aptitude. True, the rattail is one-hit wonder, but has a more remarkable hairstyle been seen on the pitch in 2014? You played for Argentina with vigor, might, and majesty. From the FIHA headquarters, we cry for you.<br />
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The true loss here, though—and I am not just saying this because I am American—is the hair talents of Kyle Beckerman. Yes, it's the dreads. Yes, it's the mass of the dreads. But even within the standards of high-mass dreadss, Beckerman remains a remarkable player.<br />
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In game play he's fluid:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFjHXdnIZWIV2kgTNXblj_-A1iYrPNj-qfNTkzmUNZzzDgb2ZdYO0fr_KpKJbE5pw2DmamAIhKYGhvOdmSEF_F14j33hUOV-EZHkApvJOaPor6ktbA5ZkCHwN2Cb81x4btXpvNhQClF0GW/s1600/world+hair+cup+beckerman+2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFjHXdnIZWIV2kgTNXblj_-A1iYrPNj-qfNTkzmUNZzzDgb2ZdYO0fr_KpKJbE5pw2DmamAIhKYGhvOdmSEF_F14j33hUOV-EZHkApvJOaPor6ktbA5ZkCHwN2Cb81x4btXpvNhQClF0GW/s1600/world+hair+cup+beckerman+2.png" height="296" width="320" /></a></div>
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He enables excellent hair assists:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhraV-HF3tFjZwDr8M4PBBHw-TvXkSnJmfkuvguuoA6ekqT_Cx7BujPzzWrkNDhWeT3B63T-48KfwJOwRcpEHqlDp_QJB2atqaMR4sh-WRBFZ5T4Igq46sO61XMyFCtKCY6UxTwrX-gM_Z/s1600/world+hair+cup+beckmerman+assist.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhraV-HF3tFjZwDr8M4PBBHw-TvXkSnJmfkuvguuoA6ekqT_Cx7BujPzzWrkNDhWeT3B63T-48KfwJOwRcpEHqlDp_QJB2atqaMR4sh-WRBFZ5T4Igq46sO61XMyFCtKCY6UxTwrX-gM_Z/s1600/world+hair+cup+beckmerman+assist.png" height="207" width="320" /></a></div>
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He's unafraid in the face of fierce competition:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Uts2wOMoNqvbQFWbmcUfF4dEvAyUn4K6Phhho3DMqWhusN1hfiKeLGWJHdDbq_zD_cWNGDc-fcXKG4LOtOc5RouNoARByUoPOjgsCz6JLCnU3iyeyRq0MqcGOm_bB0BukZ6kien5g-9X/s1600/world+hair+cup+beckerman+meireles.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Uts2wOMoNqvbQFWbmcUfF4dEvAyUn4K6Phhho3DMqWhusN1hfiKeLGWJHdDbq_zD_cWNGDc-fcXKG4LOtOc5RouNoARByUoPOjgsCz6JLCnU3iyeyRq0MqcGOm_bB0BukZ6kien5g-9X/s1600/world+hair+cup+beckerman+meireles.png" height="251" width="320" /></a></div>
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And for ceremonial purposes he does all right too:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEqvXL2zV0DM81xgbx9ax_pvjwMPvXIyzBSh15A7NEfqxQpc9nL1oX8Zz_APNrIuZLmm3J6sj8P_Xr5K7H982BWUiUEVeTsyS2FbZ6Ga5Bz3YNiTCAazQHC5QPAgPl0eg4QBBWxBWsQzHD/s1600/world+hair+cup+beckerman+cleaned+up.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEqvXL2zV0DM81xgbx9ax_pvjwMPvXIyzBSh15A7NEfqxQpc9nL1oX8Zz_APNrIuZLmm3J6sj8P_Xr5K7H982BWUiUEVeTsyS2FbZ6Ga5Bz3YNiTCAazQHC5QPAgPl0eg4QBBWxBWsQzHD/s1600/world+hair+cup+beckerman+cleaned+up.png" height="193" width="320" /></a></div>
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Kyle Beckerman: You, sir, are the Ghana of your hair group. Thrust into the Group of Death, you played with the passion and ingenuity you're known for, and were you in another group, we may well have seen the United States advance on your merits alone. But in the Group of Death—Meireles's mohawk with matching beard, Gyan's bleached jersey number at the temple, Pepe's glistening curls—even your magnificent mane wasn't enough to save us. Your team is unworthy of your skills. For chrissakes, the third-most-remarkable hair on your team belongs to Michael Bradley.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhuE65czoB7R3N7aHEfjCTYEnn-1pJSUCUBxaSqiSl2HKVOYC9vKCWpCVrjyROUYOby21w9xpYshLhM0CAi90VRhuPaVlNIDoNFivSySqmSwmNiUXhZtczY8MtFwCktTh3iXkebooxxDU-/s1600/world+hair+cup+michael+bradley.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhuE65czoB7R3N7aHEfjCTYEnn-1pJSUCUBxaSqiSl2HKVOYC9vKCWpCVrjyROUYOby21w9xpYshLhM0CAi90VRhuPaVlNIDoNFivSySqmSwmNiUXhZtczY8MtFwCktTh3iXkebooxxDU-/s1600/world+hair+cup+michael+bradley.png" height="320" width="307" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><b>Michael Bradley, USA. Position: Midfielder. Hair: None.</b></i></span></div>
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Kyle Beckerman, on behalf of all of us here at the Fédération Internationale de Hair Association: We salute you. <span style="color: #274e13;"><i><b>We salute your hair.</b></i></span><br />
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Yet: The game must go on. Congratulations to those who made the Round of 16: Brazil, Cameroon, Netherlands, Child, Côte d'Ivoire, Greece, Italy, Uruguay, France, Ecuador, Iran, Bosnia-Herzegovina, Portugal, Ghana, Algeria, and Belgium.<b> <a href="http://kwiksurveys.com/app/rendersurvey.asp?sid=c0d4kfx75hlztty379114&refer=">Who from the Group of 16 will advance to the quarterfinals? Vote here!</a></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqUoMtnA_Me5a7bIgvbJBXylJB5cVNF7NvNxkWM8tGsenptX9CCYJPUx5UCWYE6pvqlD9dyV0ZqzfV8L2iVzsFEGw7JNqhpt2PGWibhZfMdzqtSMvxum4m862_p4PQbRyOSzCqMZS3A4Vs/s1600/bracket-whole-72dpi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqUoMtnA_Me5a7bIgvbJBXylJB5cVNF7NvNxkWM8tGsenptX9CCYJPUx5UCWYE6pvqlD9dyV0ZqzfV8L2iVzsFEGw7JNqhpt2PGWibhZfMdzqtSMvxum4m862_p4PQbRyOSzCqMZS3A4Vs/s1600/bracket-whole-72dpi.jpg" height="222" width="400" /></a></div>
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(Confused about how the bracket system works? Click on the above image for a full-size visual.) <b></b><br />
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<br />(Confused by why The Beheld is temporarily dominated by soccer hair? More on that soon.)<br />
<br />Autumn Whitefield-Madranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03379314479257695986noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5689865906513225949.post-13225591779468836292014-06-23T11:52:00.000-04:002014-06-23T11:52:55.535-04:00World Hair Cup 2014 UpdatesYou've cast your group stage vote in the World Hair Cup, right? If not, <a href="http://kwiksurveys.com/app/rendersurvey.asp?sid=c0d4kfx75hlztty379114&refer=www%2Ethe-beheld%2Ecom">do so immediately</a>—the world needs to know which hair will dominate. I've also set up a special URL just for the occasion, so if you tell people about it—or, dare I suggest, set up a betting bracket for your office?—you can just direct them to <a href="http://worldhaircup.com/">WorldHairCup.com</a>.<br />
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So given that 2014 marks the inaugural World Hair Cup, it's understandable that the Fédération Internationale de Hair Association (FIHA) ran into some unexpected issues during group stage. (Hey, <a href="http://www.fifa.com/tournaments/archive/worldcup/southafrica2010/news/newsid=576440/index.html">it took FIFA a couple of tries to figure out</a> they should hold qualifying rounds to thin out the competition, so forgive us.) Two things FIHA did not consider when compiling the ballots for group stage:<br />
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<b>1) Between-game hair changes. </b>Case study: Neymar's hair is definitively remarkable, but he really upped the ante between the June 13 Brazil-Croatia match and the June 17 Brazil-Mexico match with his dye job:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Gd9uvCv0_Bw3YFCXsEyxCLhPBju0mFQc_aN7UMyboo1pj6IWDRJa8qAjjAZQk_x4JFVxQH0mbIY2-EIJXtl1qIlwKEe1VLpgl4VY8wmmncCnMYX7rveIXzmMqqFoOaRkQ64bs5QCXGco/s1600/neymar+brazil+croatia.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Gd9uvCv0_Bw3YFCXsEyxCLhPBju0mFQc_aN7UMyboo1pj6IWDRJa8qAjjAZQk_x4JFVxQH0mbIY2-EIJXtl1qIlwKEe1VLpgl4VY8wmmncCnMYX7rveIXzmMqqFoOaRkQ64bs5QCXGco/s1600/neymar+brazil+croatia.png" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Brazil-Croatia, June 13</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Brazil-Mexico, June 17 </i></span></div>
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Neymar was the most-discussed example of the between-match switcheroo, but he wasn't alone: Honduran defender Brayan Beckeles went sunny-side-up between taking on France and the match with Ecuador:<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Honduras-France, June 15</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Honduras-Ecuador, June 20</i></span></div>
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<br /><br />The question for <a href="http://kwiksurveys.com/app/rendersurvey.asp?sid=c0d4kfx75hlztty379114&refer=www%2Ethe-beheld%2Ecom">voters in The World Hair Cup</a> then becomes this: Is a between-games hair change remarkable enough to up a team's Hair Power Index (HPI)? After all, Neymar took the time between matches to frost his hair but then couldn't be bothered to score against Mexico, so clearly he thinks it's remarkable. To answer the question, <a href="http://worldhaircup.com/">we turn to the WHC bylaws</a>: "<i>Only the hairstyles sported during game play of the FIFA World Cup 2014 may be considered. </i>Players’ hair history may not be considered for the 2014 WHC." Thus, both the "before" hair and the "after" hair may be considered in hair remarkability—yet the change <i>in and of itself</i> does not factor into hair remarkability. Think of it as a zen koan.<br />
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It's worth noting that in both the case studies given above, the dye job was inversely correlated with superior game play—Brazil, widely considered the favorite to win the whole shebang, drew with Mexico, while Honduras lost to Ecuador 2-1. We at FIHA are experts on hair remarkability, not soccer mechanics. But still, we're just sayin'.<br />
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<b>2) The bench. </b>Now, the rules of The World Hair Cup clearly state that all team members on the official roster may be considered when determining a team's HPI. But it's near-impossible to truly tell how remarkable a player's hair really is until they've gotten some time in play. For example, when not in motion, David Silva of Spain has fairly unremarkable hair, unless by "remarkability" you mean "resemblance to a Beatles wig":<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Unremarkable.</i></span></div>
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But put the midfielder on the pitch and his hair <i>becomes</i> remarkable:<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Remarkable.</i></span></div>
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<br />So then what do we do about players on the bench? To demonstrate how crucial this question is, let's turn to Argentina. When putting together the voting ballot for the WHC Group Stage, FIHA considered Argentina's hair to be merely average in remarkability.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHgBgodgj_wcWFKMvjP2zxpj05umgDdqjrqx8J2ogCJrLAwIwj2L-mJ2HKc4pShQLA3AWbRXJ6yAjXYrF3Lral7G46N5IWtuG84u0-yy4yn6T4N4EmCikPw2NHwbF8ndbebj6EBsP3__fy/s1600/argentina.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHgBgodgj_wcWFKMvjP2zxpj05umgDdqjrqx8J2ogCJrLAwIwj2L-mJ2HKc4pShQLA3AWbRXJ6yAjXYrF3Lral7G46N5IWtuG84u0-yy4yn6T4N4EmCikPw2NHwbF8ndbebj6EBsP3__fy/s1600/argentina.png" height="131" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Argentina, in game play vs. Bosnia-Herzegovina June 15:<span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span>Average hair remarkability.</i></span></div>
<br />But six days later, in the 76th minute of the match against Iran, coach Alejandro Sabella brought on one of the most truly remarkable players in the 2014 World Hair Cup: Rodrigo Palacio.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3uqgWRKX36KbFTQt0AooOPw-rIdsJ8eC_7H2oxYmm-puVnyR9aqUaqZUe9w0RB8OsHTfEmcOYu5pX-3migZF5loCltM9AS8wPnfh53XNslyPEuDeUZTlgdYpM08-gLaknSPkfTBvoznec/s1600/palacio.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3uqgWRKX36KbFTQt0AooOPw-rIdsJ8eC_7H2oxYmm-puVnyR9aqUaqZUe9w0RB8OsHTfEmcOYu5pX-3migZF5loCltM9AS8wPnfh53XNslyPEuDeUZTlgdYpM08-gLaknSPkfTBvoznec/s1600/palacio.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Rodrigo Palacio: Extraordinary hair remarkability.</i></span></div>
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<br /><br />Yes, that's a rattail, and yes, rattails are <i>highly fucking remarkable</i>. (Remember, the WHC is based on hair remarkability, not good hair.) Yet the FIHA board member responsible for putting together the ballots was unaware of Palacio's remarkable hair until well after the ballots had been distributed <a href="http://kwiksurveys.com/app/rendersurvey.asp?sid=c0d4kfx75hlztty379114&refer=www%2Ethe-beheld%2Ecom">(get your group stage ballot here)</a>. Argentina's HPI suffers as a result, and Argentina may well lose out to teams that may ultimately be less deserving. But that's the game, people. Even the beautiful game can get ugly.<br />
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<b>The end fallout: Voters may consider the hair on the bench, and bench hair is factored into a team's HPI, but remarkable hair that never gets on the pitch may not be the deciding factor of any vote. </b>Let's use forward Jozy Altidore as a metaphor: The U.S. A. is seen as a threat in large part because of him, but his injury kept him from being a factor in the Portugal game. (This also brings up the question of what to do about hair injuries, which FIHA will consider on a case-by-case basis.)<br /><br /><b>Reminder: </b><a href="http://kwiksurveys.com/app/rendersurvey.asp?sid=c0d4kfx75hlztty379114&refer=www%2Ethe-beheld%2Ecom">Group Stage voting</a> is open until Thursday, June 26, at which point the top two teams from each group will progress to the Hair Group of 16. <a href="http://kwiksurveys.com/app/rendersurvey.asp?sid=c0d4kfx75hlztty379114&refer=www%2Ethe-beheld%2Ecom">Cast your ballot now!</a>Autumn Whitefield-Madranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03379314479257695986noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5689865906513225949.post-21687222586302399892014-06-18T08:43:00.000-04:002014-06-18T08:43:08.103-04:00The World Hair Cup: Who Makes the Cut?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>Whereas</i> a large portion of the global population is infatuated with soccer, née football—<br />
<i>Whereas</i> a disproportionate number of soccer players have <i>remarkable</i> hair—<br />
<i>Whereas</i> we, the people, <i>care about hair</i>—<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">The World Hair Cup 2014 has arrived. </span></b><br />
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<i><b><span style="font-size: large;">And you have a vote.</span></b></i><br />
<i><b><br /></b></i><b><a href="http://kwiksurveys.com/s.asp?sid=c0d4kfx75hlztty379114">Vote for the team with the most remarkable hair in each group here</a></b>. Voting for The World Hair Cup will follow <a href="http://www.fifa.com/worldcup/matches/index.html#secondstage">the "real" World Cup system and schedule</a>: Group Stage voting will last through June 26, when the two teams with the highest number of votes from each group will progress to the Round of 16 for another round of voting. From there, the winner of each match will continue to quarterfinals, then semifinals, until—at last!—the winner of The World Hair Cup is crowned July 13. (For a visual of how the bracket system works, <a href="https://8by8mag.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/03/88_WC_BRACKET2.jpg">go here</a>.<br />
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<b>The sole criterion of The World Hair Cup is team members' <i>hair remarkability</i>. </b>The WHC is about neither good hair, nor bad hair. It is about <i>remarkable</i> hair.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPcZz1IGLz7xrKCaAMI0HbpYE5NaZSxAmmanmYRoUcXI7Jcu7_li1vC-ciSQDbfjQLTZNVyPyVnjoDT0i7uqAhGRaxhc79H9cKYTK2kj0W65NunzMMEVrwtbnnI5ZAi0f7Q3ER8nk3Egya/s1600/collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPcZz1IGLz7xrKCaAMI0HbpYE5NaZSxAmmanmYRoUcXI7Jcu7_li1vC-ciSQDbfjQLTZNVyPyVnjoDT0i7uqAhGRaxhc79H9cKYTK2kj0W65NunzMMEVrwtbnnI5ZAi0f7Q3ER8nk3Egya/s1600/collage.jpg" height="373" width="445" /></a></div>
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As commissioner of the World Hair Cup, I have selected three players from each team as representatives of their team's hair remarkability; photographs of these players are shown on the ballot, but voters are encouraged to conduct their own research. Photographs of all participating nations' team members are available <a href="http://www.fifa.com/worldcup/teams/index.html">at the FIFA website</a>. </div>
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And now—<i>now</i>—</div>
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—<i>We begin.</i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://kwiksurveys.com/s.asp?sid=c0d4kfx75hlztty379114"><b>WORLD HAIR CUP 2014</b></a></span></div>
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<a href="http://kwiksurveys.com/s.asp?sid=c0d4kfx75hlztty379114"><b><span style="font-size: large;">GROUP STAGE </span><span style="font-size: large;">BALLOT </span></b></a><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://kwiksurveys.com/s.asp?sid=c0d4kfx75hlztty379114"><b>HERE</b></a></span></div>
Autumn Whitefield-Madranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03379314479257695986noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5689865906513225949.post-49548841961136599272014-06-13T00:05:00.002-04:002014-06-13T00:05:53.577-04:00The Scent(s) of a Woman<div>
<i>Most of my explorations here have been on the visual side of beauty: how the way we look and the way we choose to present ourselves shapes—and is shaped by—cultural forces, as well as who we believe ourselves to be. The other senses, I've neglected. Reading the following essay by Mary Mann has made me want to reconsider this accidental stance. Where I decorated my portal to womanhood with makeup, Mann marked hers with fragrance, exercising the most private of senses. Not that the elusive nature of perfume makes it any less quarrelsome from a by-the-book feminist approach, as you'll see. </i></div>
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<i>Mann's essays and criticism have appeared in The Believer, Salon, The Hairpin, The Rumpus, Bookslut and Ploughshares online, among others. She's associate editor of the forthcoming book </i><a href="http://www.powells.com/biblio/62-9780399166563-0">Women in Clothes</a><i>. You can follow her on <a href="http://marymannathome.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/Mary_E_Mann">Twitter</a>.</i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">"<span style="text-align: start;">Perfume seemed part and parcel of womanhood—its nature, invisible but sweet, sums up the expectations for women’s behavior through most of history—but the existence of cologne and aftershave blur gender lines. It isn’t just women who want to smell good. It’s people."</span></span></i></div>
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At noon on a hot August Wednesday, the Sephora on 34th Street is the most soothing store on the block. It’s as packed with lunchtime shoppers and tourists as the nearby Foot Locker and H&M, but the women’s faces in Sephora—and it’s almost uniformly women—have a serene cast that’s rare in Manhattan on a weekday. Fingers trail over tubes of color, eyes close trustingly as a carefully made-up employee bends over a customer’s face with a mascara applicator; toner is stroked over skin and perfume is spritzed on wrists. Feminine murmurs and coos wash through the room. It’s a sensory paradise, everything promising beauty, beauty, beauty.<br />
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“Can I help you with something?” the black-clad sales associate asks. He is a man, actually, young and acne-scarred with sculpted hair that gives off a cedar scent.<br />
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“Uh, yeah,” I respond, slow on the uptake—I hadn’t expected such slack-lidded serenity in midtown—and momentarily at a loss. But my mission has been long in the making and its purpose comes back to me quickly. His pungent hair is a good reminder.<br />
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“Where are your perfumes?”<br />
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An Egyptian named Tapputi was the first perfumer, circa 200 BC, and her blend was probably something powerful, as royals used it in lieu of baths. This was how I once thought of perfume: strictly for the wealthy, and outdated to boot—who needs perfume in the era of hot showers and shampoo?</div>
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“Who needs it?” was my approach to all the trappings of womanhood: lipstick felt clownish and heels made me wobble so I smiled palely and sped along in flats, cutting my own hair with the help of a YouTube video. Perfume was too fussy to even contemplate. This was all well and good for a few years after college—I had a Kerouac-wannabe boyfriend and a series of outdoor jobs—but by my mid-twenties, in the company of increasingly professional peers and a kinder, more adult, boyfriend, I started to feel…young.</div>
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And not in a good way. Not in an “I never get carded” kind of way. What I felt was more akin to middle school angst, when everyone around me got breasts and I remained boyish and boobless. Breasts eventually arrived, but the less innate transition from teen to grown woman was more elusive.</div>
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It wasn’t necessarily the lack of lipstick or perfume. Plenty of women seem self-assured without these things. But those women project the sense that they easily <i>could</i> wear them. For them, it’s a choice; for me, it wasn’t even an option. A bright smear of lipstick would have seemed artificial, gauche even. My boyfriend told me not to worry about it—“you’re great as you are”—but that didn’t solve the problem: I was inept at womanhood but it seemed shallow and unfeminist to care, so I didn’t <i>do</i> anything about it. I was paralyzed. Forever young. </div>
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“The problem with a beautiful woman is that she makes everyone around her feel hopelessly masculine,” wrote Lorrie Moore. “You are praying for your breasts to grow, your hair to perk up.” It wasn’t beauty, but others’ easy womanhood—the unthinking swipe of lipstick, the easy gait in heels—that exposed my ungainliness.</div>
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It was as if everyone else had been to a womanhood seminar without me.</div>
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I wish there was a womanhood seminar, actually. Something mandatory and solemn, a rite of passage that would firmly delineate the line between adolescence and adulthood. But, at least in the U.S. of today, we learn womanhood largely alone, taking cues from generous friends or stylish moms. My mom was a strident feminist who wore shapeless t-shirts from Goodwill and my dad’s deodorant. She’s uncomfortable with her womanly body, but she’s a great mom, and ideally my passage into womanhood wouldn’t be solely based on her tutelage anyway. Becoming <i>part</i> of a group—even one as broad as All Women—should <i>involve</i> a group. Maybe even a clubhouse, a safe space to learn, or admit to needing help. Someplace where I could close my eyes, trustingly, and let another woman tell me what eyeshadow looked good with my skin tone.</div>
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Wending his way through the aisles, the Sephora sales associate stops and points to a tube of lipstick in a young woman’s hand. She’s a wispy blonde, pale as milk.<br />
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“That one’s gonna be a little too orange,” he tells her. As he scans the shelves, one hand on his chin, it strikes me as appropriate that my guide through the temple of womanhood is male—we’re both outsiders here. The difference is, he really knows what he’s doing. Women trust him. In this female sanctuary, even dudes trump me.<br />
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“Try this one, here,” he says decisively, holding out a black tube with a dusky pink sticker on its base. “It’s called Obey, you’ll love it, I swear.”<br />
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Obediently, she takes it.<br />
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Some lipstick color names in Sephora: Pop Star, Private Jet, Tease, Palm Beach, Paparazzi, Tabloid, Fever, Catfight, Broadest Berry, Pigalle, Schlap, Melondrama.<br />
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We soon wash out of the color narrative (the life of Lindsay Lohan as told in lipstick?) and into the perfume section at the back left. Display cases enclose vari-colored cut-glass bottles, most done up with cursive script or bows or atomizers as big and brashly decorative as hood ornaments. These—the Marc Jacobs with the huge plastic daisies or the Versace with its crystal cap like a cartoon engagement ring—are not for me: I already know what I want, the result of months of research. But there’s no harm in smelling a few others.<br />
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“Can I try this one here, the Maison Martin?” I ask, pointing at a round bottle with an understated label, the name in typewriter font.<br />
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“Good choice,” says the sales associate. “Which one would you like to smell first? We’ve got Beach Walk, Funfair Evenings, Lazy Sunday Mornings…” <br />
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Long before I began to learn about it, I was attracted to the idea of perfume. Unlike lipstick, scent changes in contact with each individual, so finding the right one represents a real feat. This might be why people adopt a “signature scent”—it’s so much effort to find one that works with your body. (Michelle Obama apparently smells like cherries. Virginia Woolf is supposed to have smelled like woodsmoke and apples.) And unlike a pair of high heels, perfume doesn’t hobble the newbie (unless scent gives you migraines). Perfume seemed part and parcel of womanhood—its nature, invisible but sweet, sums up the expectations for women’s behavior through most of history—but the existence of cologne and aftershave blur gender lines. It isn’t just women who want to smell good. It’s people.<br />
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But while perfume was especially enticing, it was also particularly confusing. Sephora sells nearly 500 perfume varietals, while sites like The Perfumed Court stock thousands, an overwhelming array of choice. Niche stores like New York’s Bond No. 9—with less than fifty scents—weed out the objectively bad ones, celebrity scents made to smell like Jennifer Aniston’s childhood or Jennifer Lopez’s last love affair or largely reviled fragrances like Clinique Aromatics Elixir, described by one reviewer as smelling of “cats, mothballs, and fruitcakes.” But such selective stores tend to be wildly expensive and intimidating for the novitiate. You have to know something about perfume to even know they exist.<br />
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Needing a push, I mentioned my interest in perfume to one of my bosses, a stylish but intellectual woman whom I respect. It was awkward to talk about, but when trying new things, in the words of Grace Paley, “it’s as though you <i>have</i> to be artificial at first.”</div>
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My boss encouraged me to look into it, supplying links to a few perfume websites. I thanked her but told her I wouldn’t know where to begin: everything had too many reviews, all of which seemed conflicting, most written in a language I didn’t understand. What were top notes? What were bergamot and chypre? How was I supposed to know what constituted a long life, perfume-wise? </div>
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Eventually, that same boss sent me an enormous book called <i>Perfumes: The Guide</i>, by scent experts Luca Turin (also a biophysicist) and Tania Sanchez. Their prose is acerbic and witty and damn good as they tour perfume history and basic terminology, reviewing almost 1,500 scents. A book like this was the ideal solution; allaying my fear that wanting some of the trappings of womanhood (sounding too much, to my nervously feminist ear, like “the trap” of womanhood) was a shallow, regressive goal. I read it on the train—surrounded by the far less pleasant scents of the subway—and felt saved: I was attending a womanhood seminar of one. </div>
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Perfume has a long history, but not a very celebrated one. In <i>Perfumes</i>, Tania Sanchez chalks this up to two things: (1) perfume’s literal invisibility (“How could something as shapeless and evanescent as a smell have a history and a culture?”) and (2) its current status as “girl stuff.” Comparatively, the study of wine—which shares a focus on smell and descriptive language—has a well-documented history and broad appeal: People buy wine magazines, go on wine tours, and make movies about wineries. Perfume doesn’t have that kind of cachet. Perhaps that’s because wine gets you drunk.<br />
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The first man-made scents were cones of incense worn by ancient Egyptians, followed by essential oils and an herbaceous tonic called “Hungary Water,” but according to Turin the first real perfumes—alcohol-based blends of natural and synthetic fragrances—appeared in 1868, when a guy named William Perkin (who also discovered the chemical dye that produced the color mauve) synthesized a “sweet-nutty, herbaceous, tobacco-like” smell called coumarin. By 1909, synthesized scents were so popular (not to mention profitable) that the perfume counter was front-and-center in the very first Selfridge’s.<br />
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Although the many perfume blogs can be overwhelming, Sanchez and Turin explain that the internet has been good for the perfume industry. Online review sites make it harder for perfume companies to monopolize the industry, and more companies means both more innovation and lower prices. It’s democratizing: Just as everyone should be able to wear and eat what they want, everyone should also be able to smell how they want. Perfume sample sites are one of the best examples of this scent egalitarianism.<br />
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While Sanchez and Turin provide wonderful descriptions, they’re also adamant about the need to smell before buying. Ideally you’d be able to wear the same scent a few days in a row, see how it changes on your skin, get comfortable in it—like new shoes. Which makes perfume sample websites ideal: They decant a week’s worth of a scent into a vial for about $2 and ship it to your home.<br />
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But sample sites tend to provide salesy perfume descriptions, so cross-referencing is key—I made a list of good-sounding scents from <i>Perfumes</i> and repaired to a sample site, <a href="http://theperfumedcourt.com/">The Perfumed Court</a>. I also started a word doc to record my findings, in the hopes that treating it like research would help me ease into my first womanhood experiment.<br />
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As I was selecting samples based on Turin and Sanchez’ write-ups, I realized my choices were aspirational—these were perfumes for a much more ladylike, put-together version of myself. Wood and leather scents, which I chose in droves, seemed to belong to someone who goes to the dentist regularly and doesn’t ever fall while trying to balance on the stiletto point of her heels. I added some slightly lighter scents to my cart, just to make sure I wasn't buying for, say, Katharine Hepburn instead of myself, then I made a dentist appointment while I was thinking about it.</div>
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This is one of those projects that should be inexpensive but could easily spiral out of control, as internet shopping tends to do. So I set some rules: no samples over $3, and the whole kit and caboodle had to be less than $20. I fiddled with my list, looking back and forth between the book and site, before finally settling on: Bulgari Black, Bulgari Pour Femme, Paloma Picasso, Cartier So Pretty, Missoni, and Guerlain Mitsouko. The total was $17.98. I’d receive them in 3-7 business days. </div>
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When my perfume order arrived, the packaging was as many-layered—and therefore as mysteriously elegant—as a Russian doll. Within a box was a padded envelope, within the padded envelope was a cloth sachet, within the sachet was a heavily taped mass of bubble wrap, and within the bubble wrap were six tiny vials. Because they were all touching they emanated one smell, reminiscent of my godmother's house. My boyfriend smelled it. He kind of wrinkled his nose and shrugged, “It just smells like perfume, in general.”</div>
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I placed them on our shared dresser, in our shared studio, and began what I’ve been calling “the trials.”</div>
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<i>Day 1: </i>The trials began with Cartier So Pretty. My boyfriend wasn't crazy about it when I put it on first thing in the morning. “You just smell all woman-ey” he said, by which I think he meant old. I told him that it changes over time on the skin and he should hold off on a final verdict until evening. In the meantime, though, I agreed with him. Still, the novelty of wearing a scent was exciting, and I kept bringing my wrists to my nose. I hoped I was wearing it right.</div>
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<i>Day 2: </i>Going in order from left to right, I plucked Missoni EDP from the dresser. It smelled like a really old prom corsage, plus something else, maybe dried apricots. Easily deterred (“It’s only day two,” I kept grumbling), I started to feel a little exasperated with myself. Is searching for a good scent a waste of time? Will I finish this experiment by deciding that I should just shower more frequently and buy fancier shampoo? Until then, our dresser smells like a cathedral of womanhood, and I smell like fruit and alcohol.</div>
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Oddly, when my boyfriend met me out for dinner, he actually liked the Missoni. Maybe it had faded enough by then. I asked how it smelled and he said “good” and then “it's hard to tell because it's also like you,” but then he said “fruity.”</div>
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<i>Day 3: </i>This morning I put on Paloma Picasso and asked my boyfriend to smell it, both in the bottle and on my wrist. “Yesterday's is still the best,” he said. “This one just smells like perfume. Like a perfume store.” And it does—it smells like the idea of perfume.</div>
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<i>Day 4: </i>Today I wore Bulgari Pour Femme; it's my boyfriend's favorite so far. He smelled it and said: “That one smells soft. I like it.” We went to a baseball game on Coney Island and a few times during the afternoon and evening he leaned over and smelled it and again said he liked it, unprovoked.</div>
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I’m not sure about his presence in this experiment. Recording these trials makes me more aware of the repetition: my boyfriend, my boyfriend, my boyfriend. This is in part because we share such a small space—two people sharing a Manhattan studio is no joke—and we bump up against each other a lot. And sure, I want him to like how I smell. I also think he has good taste. But it seems like relying on his opinion is a flat, boring way to come to a decision about how I'm going to smell all the time. I did like Bulgari Pour Femme, a lot actually, but I think I should try it again on a day when I'm alone just to be sure, so I can get to know it on my own.</div>
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<i>Day 5:</i> I put Bulgari Black on in the morning and let myself smell it for a while before my boyfriend did. This meant I had to go for a walk while he was waking up and getting ready, but that’s something I should probably do anyway—I like the city best in the early morning. I liked Bulgari Black, too, even better than Bulgari Pour Femme. It doesn't smell like flowers or fruit or even very much like perfume. It smells like cologne and like nighttime, so it felt incongruous with the sun and the summer weather but I liked it anyway.</div>
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<i>Day 6:</i> Last perfume. Six seemed like a lot when I ordered them but actually “the trials” don’t even last a week. Guerlain Mitsouko is an unfortunate one to end on, smelling like flowers in formaldehyde. Frankenstein flowers. </div>
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<i>Day 7-14:</i> Ever since I finished sampling all the perfumes I've just been using and reusing my little tester tube of Bulgari Black until finally there wasn’t any left. It smells good to me, and I've been getting more comfortable wearing it. I practice by putting it on around the house and now it feels good elsewhere too. It feels like a good secret, like when my boyfriend and I said we loved each other for the first time—I walked around town afterwards looking at strangers and thinking: “These schmoes have no idea this great thing just happened!”</div>
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I used to want to ride a motorbike. It looked so cool, but also scary, so I put off learning. Then a few years ago, while living in San Diego, my old boyfriend and I split up, he got the car and moved to Arizona with it, and I had no way to get to work and no money for a car of my own, so I bought a knock-off Vespa. Then I really had to learn. I took a class and practiced around my neighborhood. I ran into a dumpster once and got on the freeway once by accident, but nothing really bad happened, and by the time I left San Diego I was great at riding my fake Vespa and also really loved it. Partly because it had been scary to learn. It represented a triumph.</div>
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Once I read an interview with Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys. He wrote all the famous surf songs but he never actually learned to surf. In the interview he said he didn't want to learn now because he’s too scared of getting hurt or dying. He's old now.</div>
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Perfume is something I hadn’t been trying because I was (a) scared of failing and (b) embarrassed to put energy into learning something so, well, girly. Perfume isn’t physically dangerous, like tearing around on a motorbike or being in the barrel of a wave, but admitting that I wanted to learn about perfume and allowing myself the time to do so was an emotional risk. Being able to say “it’s research” gave me license to try things. </div>
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It’s also helped that this has all occurred during baseball season: the excesses of masculinity balancing those of femininity in the studio I share with my boyfriend—the crack of a bat and a whiff of Bulgari.</div>
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Back in Sephora, I smell a few things. Perfumes meant to evoke walking on the beach or strolling through a flower garden, eating candy or being French. </div>
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I spritz on test strips, which both the sales associate and I smell. “Hmm, no, not you, right?” he says, growing more familiar as we sniff together and make the appropriate faces: pursed mouth and wrinkled nose for not so good, raised eyebrows and downturned mouth for surprisingly not bad, gritted teeth and wide eyes for really, really bad. Having smelled as much as my nose can take, I ask the sales associate if they carry Bulgari Black.</div>
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“Oh of course,” he says, scanning the shelves until his eyes fall on a bottle the exact shape and color of a hockey puck with a silver lid. He picks it up reverentially and displays it like Vanna White.</div>
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“Would you like to smell it?”</div>
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“Yes, please.” Though I know what it smells like, it seems rude to tell him that after trying so many scents. </div>
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He sprays. It smells like night and cities and figuring things out.</div>
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“How much?” I ask, crossing my fingers. I should have checked the website first.</div>
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“One hundred, plus tax.” He says it apologetically. Though I’m wearing heels—another thing I’d taught myself while learning that it was okay to care, and to try, and to not get it right the first time—they are thrifted and scuffed, my bag overstuffed.</div>
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“Uh…” <i>What is your womanhood worth?</i> I wonder, and then, in the voice of my mom: <i>If your womanhood has a price, then it’s not yours. </i>And then, also: <i>You’ve worked in retail. Ask the important question. </i>“Do you work on commission?”</div>
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“No.”</div>
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“Oh good. I have to think about it. Thank you so much!”</div>
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Out of the store and onto the street. Heat. Halal. Tourists. Construction. Ambulances. I’d left the sanctuary.</div>
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Like the grown woman I am, I waited patiently. Sure enough, a week later I found Bulgari Black marked down on a perfume website: $35. I bought it, and use it sparingly, like holy water.</div>
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Autumn Whitefield-Madranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03379314479257695986noreply@blogger.com25