Words by Haylee Penfold
I grew up as the girl with the monobrow. It was my striking feature. It made me, me. My mum would say it made my blue eyes pop – while others would poke fun at me for it -my mum always made me feel beautiful.
It wasn’t until I was transitioning from primary school to the big world of high school that someone told me I “needed to do something about that”. My step-mum took me to a salon and I cried when hot wax was put on my face and ripped off over and over. I remember looking at my reflection and not recognising myself at first. “All fixed,” the beautician said. When my mum picked me up that afternoon, she almost cried. On the drive home, my mum explained to me that my eyebrows didn’t need to be fixed because there was nothing wrong with them before.
While I appreciate my mum’s message, I also understand the intention of my stepmother. Kids are mean, and if I were to go into the gates of high school with one strong brow across my face I’d almost certainly be the target of bullying. I remember being 15 or 16 in art class when I first saw pictures of Frida Kahlo. I thought she was beautiful, but it left me confused. The monobrow that made her iconic—the very feature I admired in her—was the same one I resented in myself.
For years I’ve been back for more hot wax torture to maintain my two strong brows. When I notice hairs growing back in the mirror, it is almost muscle memory to reach for the tweezers. When my son was born, I noticed the two strong brows on his little face. As he grew, I noticed his brows beginning to join, and it looked so adorable on him—a feature that connected him to me, one I had come to adore. Yet again, I found myself confused, as if I were back in art class, staring at Frida Kahlo and trying to make sense of it all.
I asked my partner, “Am I a bad mother if I keep waxing my eyebrows? Am I showing him that we have something about us that isn’t okay, something that needs to be changed, to “be fixed”?”. He rubbed my arm and reminded me our son is six months old and that we have time to think about how we want to navigate this conversation. But one thing I knew for sure: I never wanted him to feel the way I did in that salon when I was twelve.
This pulled me into a rabbit hole I still can’t quite escape. Where does the hypocrisy within myself end?
Not a day goes by that I don’t instinctively cover my newly formed C-section fupa, even as I tell my best friend—who bears the same scar—to embrace hers, to wear it proudly as a mark of strength. Maybe it’s a habit I picked up from my mother, who always reassured me I wasn’t fat, just healthy, whenever I fretted over the curves that unsettled me through puberty—yet she never let anyone see her own figure, always hiding beneath oversized clothes.
One thing that stayed with me was the affirmations my mother and I took from a movie we saw at the cinema—a way to feel confident and sure of myself. Looking back now, I realise that mantra never mentioned looks or beauty. Maybe that’s why it stuck. My sense of worth was never tied to the surface.
I was kind,
I was smart
I was important.
Throughout my late teens, I would endure a gruesome getting-ready routine for going out. If we were going clubbing we had to look our best. It involved shaving most of our body, fake tanning, curling hair and a face of thick makeup to conceal any blemishes my teenage hormones caused. Looking back at photos from these days I barely recognise myself, but I was confident back then so what does that mean for me?
As a new mum in my mid-twenties, I find myself in a bit of an identity crisis—a feeling that, as I’ve learned, is common among the other mums I’ve spoken to. My clothes don’t quite feel like me anymore, and neither does my hair. I hesitate before going braless now, wondering if it’s somehow inappropriate because I’m someone’s mother. Twelve months ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. Was I changing? Was it for the better or is it just another way I’m seeminging losing myself and my confidence.
So I embrace my natural fair skin tone over the fake tan that used to be a constant, and I tell myself that it is progress. I barely wear makeup anymore but I’m not sure if that is to embrace my acne-scarred skin or simply because I can’t be bothered. One day I’ll show him the scar on my lower abdomen, the one where he entered the world – the one I am yet to embrace. Maybe by then, I will be able to look in the mirror and not feel uneasy, maybe then I’ll be able to touch it – or let him touch it – and not feel nauseous.
When I was pregnant I remember writing in my diary that I wanted my child to feel good in their skin, to have no shame within their body. Now I ponder how I will teach that if I still can’t achieve that on my own?
Maybe the journey ahead will be teaching my son self-acceptance and positive affirmations in the mirror, it will be learning along the way for the both of us. One thing I know for sure is that I don’t want to miss days at the beach and swimming with my son because I hate the way my body looks in a bikini. I’ll remind him that he is kind, smart and important and in the same breath hear it again for myself too.
