The first time I remember trying to look pretty was in the seventh grade. I had convinced my mom to let me wear eyeliner.

Then the most important boy in the world, Garrett, my crush since fourth grade, he took one look at me and asked me in horror.

Why do you look like a raccoon?

So I tried again. I spent my allowance on strawberry lip gloss, loved how mature and

stylish it made me feel. But it backfired horribly. It drew Garrett's attention to something else.

You have a mustache, he told me.

And in case you didn't know, you also have hair on the back of your neck.

I did not know that.

For the next several years, I'd sneak into my mom's bathroom to pluck the hairs from my face,

and I'd avoid wearing a high ponytail or bun.

And as I went on to high school, I became more fixated on my looks.

I'd wake up two hours early just to get ready.

Growing up in a mostly white town in North Carolina,

I wanted to look more like Shelby or Brittany,

so I bought a straightener to straighten my frizzy hair and then I bought a

curler to recurle it to get the right kind of curls. And throughout the years

it continued reaching for creams and products that promised revolution,

sinking thousands of dollars into having thick beautiful hair,

but also to being hairless in all the right places.

Today, Garrett may not be telling me that I look like a raccoon, but in his place our

Instagram ads pledging to remove the circles under my eyes, saying that getting Botox is

investing in self-care.

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