Content Warning: This article mentions sexual assault.
From the time a woman is born to the day she dies, that woman is told how to act, look, and wholly present herself. Whether it’s by a man or another woman, these “standards” are the root of the patriarchy—men craving and vying for control over everyone and everything.
It’s the most frustrating thing ever.
We are told how we must dress; clothes that aren’t too tight, not too loose, not too revealing, but also not too covering.
We are told our bodies must be fit; not too skinny, but not too fat.
We are told what we can and can’t do with our bodies; don’t dye your hair certain colors, don’t have too many piercings, or even tattoos.
And they take the bodies they try so hard to control, forcing them down, punishing them for simply being born.
It’s exhausting having your head on a swivel at every moment, because no matter how safe somewhere is said to be, it is never really safe. It’s exhausting hearing on repeat that the only way you will succeed, find love, and build your future is by looking a specific way.
I hate this and refuse to let them dictate how my life will turn out.
I’ve never been one to follow the standards that are set up; they’re like a checklist I must complete each morning before walking out the door. My default settings have always been the opposite, leaving without checking a single box off their list.
Kindergarten: When I first started dying my hair.
My mom would let me get color streaks every few months. Now I’ve turned into the girl who’s known for her colored hair. It’s what sets me apart and makes me, well, me.
I remember moving from Pennsylvania to Maryland, and everyone making fun of me for this. Not only was I the new girl, but I was the new girl with pink, purple, and blue hair. My first friend was a non-verbal girl, and I will forever love her (shout out StarJay).
Third Grade: When they start looking at the dress code.
At this time, boys are finally noticing what a girl really looks like, and the dress codes start being enforced once we reach this age. I never cared about what they thought, though, I wore what I wanted to.
Shorts and hoodies, my favorite outfits, were the main things I always wore. Boys began noticing my legs, which turned into me being called “monster” because I didn’t know how to shave yet. So, I took my mom’s razor because it was embarrassing and left scars in the wake of the hair. Then I realized how stupid that was and went back to school the next day to yell at the boy who started it all.
Sixth Grade: When makeup is in every girl’s bag.
Lip gloss and mascara, the combo every girl was carrying around in middle school. It was simple, but it never felt right. It didn’t feel like enough, so concealer was added, then foundation, then contour, and so on.
I never liked that either, it’s not that I wasn’t into makeup—if you know me, you know I LOVE my makeup—it just wasn’t enough for me. Foundation and concealer were ok, never my thing though, it was all in the eyes. I love my eyes, and I always want them to pop, so I went darker with my look. Winged liner, black on the waterline, and three coats of messy mascara. It was the complete opposite of what was expected of us at this age, but it was me and how I wanted to look, still want to look.
Ninth Grade: the years of sex.
These are the years things begin to get the messiest. I don’t know if it was just where I lived, but the second we started high school, it was like sex was the only thing on people’s minds. This was also the time boys started getting aggressive about their wants. Shooting a guy down was no longer simple.
Those boys who couldn’t handle rejection just start taking what they want. It’s sad that the number of rapes I know happened because a little boy didn’t like that a girl didn’t want him back. No stopped meaning no; it stopped existing entirely. One of the first words we learned as kids was another language they couldn’t understand anymore.
College: saying bye to the standards.
Girls begin to realize they can’t control the standards once they leave home. It’s like something finally clicks in our brains when we are on our own, that even though these standards exist, it’s not a joyful life when you follow them. They seclude you to a box, erasing all sense of our individuality.
The patriarchy does not get to tell us who we are. I’ve added six tattoos to my skin since graduating high school. I have eight body piercings. I wear the clothes that I feel best in. I do my makeup in a way that suits me. I dye my hair fun colors because to me brown is boring, but to other girls it’s their color.
I never wanted to follow the standards; I purposely didn’t because why does someone else get to tell me what to do with my body?
I look the way I want to, and I love the way I look.