When I was growing up, the iconic song "At Seventeen" popularized by Janis Ian for for the never-made-it-to-prom-queen-crowd truly hit home. From a scale of nerd to cheerleader, I clearly belonged to the former. I was lucky I didn't mind (as much as one who went neurotic over a bit of overbite) because my family valued intelligence over good looks and my report card overshadowed the fact that I was obese, wore granny glasses (since first grade), had minimum social skills, clumsy at ballet and was always last when they picked team mates for group games.
Thank God, much of that has changed through the years. After all, it's easier now with "scientific" remedies easily bought from the beauty counter - or for desperate measures, there's always the cosmetic surgeon or the orthodontist to run to. On hindsight I believe that the balancing forces of reality check, common sense and grudging acceptance that beauty is a spectrum (I had an unassailable right to take my place anywhere within that continuum), thrown in with a strong dose of humor breeds healthy self-love and raises self-esteem.
Genes are limiting factors but I think I can live without the additional inches on legs that go forever or lips that puts Angelina Jolie to shame. After all, a kind smile is more endearing than plump lips pursed in a scowl, at any age. Am saying this now but I may just brave the knife when my wrinkles make me look like a Sharpei. A face engulfed in myriads of folds and wide-eyed quizzical expression with a hint of a drool may be cute in dogs but certainly not on me.
Editing pix and video is a no-brainer given present technology. Editing a life... that one matters most.
