Content warning: body issues
I think I would prefer to have blonde hair.
Hair that crunched into curls by the salt of the sea,
before billowing in the breeze,
like an old pair of jeans
or a button-down shirt hung up to dry.
I would cut it myself when it grew too long,
with steel scissors, rusted in a drawer somewhere, containing everything that went missing,
so the ends would lightly brush
against the red of my shoulders,
like tall grass meeting a pink sky for afternoon tea.
And when fly-aways stuck to my cheeks
in the stickiness of the sun,
I would drag my fingers through each strand
to pin half of them back
with a tortoise-shell crocodile clip my mum gave me.
Part One: Some Days
Some days, I wish my ankles were more dainty. So I could wear frilly white socks in the summer. I also wish my lips were fuller so I could wear bright red lipstick in the evenings. I wish that my fingers were thinner, because if they were, I would wear rings in every colour to match my outfits. I also wish that my eyelids were more open, like Any Celebrity Ever, so that I could wing the corners with eyeliner.
Some days, I pinch the soft in my sides to see if my bones sit shallower than last week. And some days, I inhale Everything to hold tight in my lungs, with both hands, so my belly coils inwards.
Some days, I wish many more things to be true.
Part Two: Someday
Some days, some days, someday if I have a baby girl of my own, with brown hair and eyes shy behind creases, under the straight edges of her brows, and a round face that hugged those eyes whenever she smiled, I would tuck her hair behind her ears and kiss the top of her head to soften any worries buried underneath. Because everything about her would be magical, regardless of the day.
I think if I saw my baby girl pinching any softness she had, I would tell her to apologise because it is rude to pinch people, and because her softness should be adored. And I think if I saw my baby turning blue in an effort to make herself smaller, I would move her toys to the side and remind her that there is more than enough room for her in any space she wanted to be in.
With this, and with the love of my own mum in mind, I like how tall I am, because I can usually reach high shelves. I like how thick my hair is, because hairdressers always compliment it. I like how dark my eyes are, and I like that I stopped biting my nails. I like the shape of my hips and how skirts and dresses sit on them. I like the wriggle in my toes and I like the fullness of my legs. I like my shoulders. And I also quite like the white etches stretching along my thighs, up to the tops of my hips. I quite like how the sun doesn’t touch them when I tan; glowing white against the gold, after a blue and yellowy day, laid out lazy in the garden.
I like all of these things, and I sometimes wish other things to be true. But that is only on some days – and I think someday, those somethings won’t matter.