Pretty Note

 She’s pretty, and her too. And they’re pretty and I’m pretty and we’re pretty. That girl doesn’t think she’s pretty, and those people don’t think I’m pretty, and he doesn’t think we’re pretty, but we do. On a scale from one to ten, they rate me a six. Should I listen to that? Do they speak for everyone? Or just themselves?  On a scale from zero to whatever I’m 135. Is that too big? Is it too small? What is the axis on their scale? I can’t look away from the number between my feet. 

Then for the first time, I notice my legs. Covered in hair like my dads, like the boys at school, like the male pedestrians in their basketball shorts during the summer season. I have to do something about it. Not because I want to but because I have to. It’s why I’m a six. It’s how I will gain four more points. I plug up the razor I found under the sink. Unsure of what to do I place one leg on top of the sink for a better view. This is dangerous, I think. Four more points. I think. 

The next couple of weeks I find myself avoiding the mirror. I find myself immersed in social media and then on shopping apps trying to clone the image of the pretty girls on my feed. I find myself in and out of my nearest drug store looking for any and all kinds of makeup that will make my face pop and make my score skyrocket.

I squeeze into my new dresses I ordered a few sizes too small. I frantically try new things with my hair, the more I tug the more my arms become sore. I push through it because I know I have already created a new playlist of workout videos I will try all in one day when I’m finished. I feel weak though. I haven’t looked a meal in its face since the day my one-hundred percent became sixty. But it doesn’t matter because he will notice me and so will she, and they will notice me too. But I don’t recognize me. They rate me a ten out of ten.