Eye of the Beholder

Poetry Month, day 7


Eye of the Beholder

I went to the Women’s Conference

(decades ago now; I was only 

in my forties) at the University of 

Melbourne – where I’d been a student

once, but now I was the at-home 

mother of schoolboys. It was crowded:

women of all shapes, sizes and ages.

Most were wearing no makeup,

comfortable clothes. The second day, 

I did too. “But that in itself is 

conforming,” said my neighbour (who 
didn’t go) who enjoyed playing with 
makeup, fashion, hair colouring,

perfumes…. (To be honest, I did, too.)

By the third day, I started to see

beauty everywhere I looked – 

a beauty that didn’t reside

in painted lips or high heels, or

everyone trying to look the same.

I saw the beauty in difference,

the beauty of difference.

It shone from the tall and straight:

slim trees touching the sky. And

from the fatly rounded, their soft,

cushiony, flowing curves. From

tiny women and the strongly built,

from the interesting maps of the crones’ 

lived-in faces, and the smooth teens.

I still wear lipstick, but that’s about all.

My face tells the world I’m past forty

by a long way. But younger men whom

I don’t know call me “darling”. (I must

seem like a nice old thing.) And when I

posted my latest selfie on facebook,

dozens of friends labelled me beautiful.

For Camera Flash! at 'imaginary garden with real toads", responding to a photo of a model advertising cosmetics.