The Problem with Beauty

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Most everyone who sees me calls me beautiful. Bella. Lovely. Gorgeous. Mostly beautiful. If you heard that on any old day, I’m sure you would congratulate me. “How lucky you are,” you would say. “How lucky.”

And maybe I am, in some ways. I do have a brother, the most wonderful brother in the world – and I’m not joking. I even have an iPhone and two parents who adore us, who absolutely love us to death. Yes. All well and good.

The only problem – I am beautiful.

You may laugh at me, you may shake your head in disbelief. But just let me show you what I mean.



I cannot have peace, I cannot go anywhere unnoticed. I am constantly harassed. When I look at the mirror I see beauty, yes, I do. But I also see a curse. Other girls can hide – I can’t. Other girls are loved and admired only because of their lovely character and charm. Not me. You can’t get past a lovely face – not to admire, not even to care.



This is the problem with beauty.





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