Cinderella.

That was my favorite fairy tale of them all, not because of the famous glass slipper or the allure of the handsome prince charming falling in love with her or the blue gown.

It was the transformation from a maid to a beautiful princess that was the most exciting part for me.

I was the supremely skinny kid in your class, the girl with the thick bushy eyebrows, dense, long curly hair and, overall bony structure. I knew how unattractive I was because I was reminded of it repeatedly. The uncomfortable questions never ceased, the gasps at every time they would meet me, the monotony of their “You’re so thin, don’t you eat anything?” questions would ring in my ears, leaving an invisible cut on my mind and embarrassing my parents.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault. My parents did the best they could.

I was just never hungry.

My parents consulted many doctors who gave me different medications to invoke hunger but, none of them made a difference. It didn’t naturally come to me.

I had lost my appetite after I had knocked my leg on a wooden table while dancing when I was three years old and got myself a hairline fracture. With the number of medications they gave me, every meal just tasted bland, and I never regained the taste for it.

My structure, my looks, my dark curly hair, and paper-thin hands put me at the bottom of the hierarchy of the attractive people in our school. Even though I had insulated myself with my group of friends, amazing people who did not care about my appearance but occasional shards from other people would still filter through.

They would sometimes subtly and sometimes not so subtly pass comments like,

“You look like a stick,

a hangar,

a giraffe

a tall poll.”

These comments were unoriginal and unimaginative and stung less every time they came my way but, they nailed the point in my psyche of how ugly I was.

These comments were often an attempt on their part to mask their shortcomings. To sharpen their wit on someone’s discomfort and impress their superiority on others.

Isn’t that the rule of the world?

I, however, had accepted this point, that though most of the girls in my class had straighter hair, less body hair, and proportionate build, I, on the other hand, did not. I pretended throughout my early teen years that being unattractive did not bother me, that it was ok. I was beautiful inside and, that's what mattered.

But it was hard to keep up the pretense. Watching beauty pageants and wishing to be in their place someday did not help either but fairytale-like the ugly duckling kept a small fire of hope going, kindling a silent wish to be beautiful.

I remember my first formal dance in the 10th grade. We were all supposed to dress up and mark our first steps of being closer to becoming adults at 16. But that event is more than that. Isn’t it?

For some, it’s a chance to dress up, show off how beautiful or handsome you are or might become in the future but, for some, especially for someone like me, it was a dreadful day.

I went all out, got rid of my body hair, got my eyebrows threaded for the first time which was painful, and recalled the self-flagellation that girls had to undertake to be deemed beautiful, but the salon lady did not stop there. She further convinced my mom and me that to look more presentable it would be a good idea to remove hair from my whole face with threading.

It made me look like someone had tortured me and peeled away a thin layer of my skin.

I saw my face in the mirror and cried.

I couldn’t decide whether this was an improvement or not. But as there was nothing I could do about it, I resigned myself to my state.

Straightening my hair, I thought, would make a significant improvement. So, on ‘The day’ I went to the same salon to get my hair straightened. I know you must be wondering why I would go back to the same torturous place; you see, it had taken a lot of courage to go into a salon in the first place. I had feared they would refuse to serve me while branding me a hopeless case on whom they rather not waste time. So, when they allowed me in and agreed to do the work, I was grateful and did not question their judgment at all, even after that disastrous threading.

Another stylist was working on me that day, a guy. When I removed my hair tie and let loose my untamed curls, I could see the shock and disappointment on his face as it seemed that it was going to take at least a couple of hours. He put on all the clips and removed one section of my hair to straighten, and I could see he was not pleased with the amount of effort he had to put in. I prayed to myself, please, dear God, please make it worth it, turn me into beautiful Cinderella.

It took him 2.15 hours to straighten my hair, but the magic spell did not work. I did not transform; there wasn’t going to be a before and after picture. I was still the old me with just a skinned face and now flat, heavy straight hair that did not compliment me at all.

The dance was in a few hours. I stared at myself in the mirror and a small tear rolled down my cheek and, I quickly wiped it away. I did not want my mother to see me cry; she had done her best too. I did not want her to feel my disappointment so, I put on a brave face and got ready for the dance.

It was exhausting, putting on a brave face every time. Pretending it didn’t hurt, pretending, my dreams of becoming Cinderella, weren’t crushed. But I gathered strength from the fact that she had maintained her patience throughout her ordeal. Despite whatever her stepfamily put her through, she had remained calm, and I could attempt to embody her patience at the very least. Maybe then, in some way, I could be like her and get my happy ending.

It was time for the dance. I had put on my dress, slipped into my heels, and had tried every hairstyle on my hair to give it a bounce and failed. For makeup, the basics covered, some tinted face cream, a little lip gloss, and the usual mascara, and I was ready. It was an improvement from before or, that’s what I convinced myself, as I walked towards my dad’s car and left my mother standing at the door, waving me good luck.

Dad started the car and, as I sat inside, nerves kicked in. I could feel my heart racing, attempting to jump out of my chest. All I could think was what people might think of me, whether they would make fun of me, call me a freak, or worse comment, that I had looked better before than the hideous creature I had turned myself in. I had dreamed of this day when Cinderella transformed into a beautiful princess and, as she walked into the ballroom, every eye was on her, admiring inquiring about her, wishing they were her.

In my case, dread was the only thing that came into mind.

We were almost there, around the corner of the school and, then there it would be the gates. The gates to my doom, to a future of being mediocre and remaining an ugly duckling. I should have been more prepared, more prepared for the worst. My aspirations had motivated the transformation and forced me to hope for myself and, now they were crushed and it seemed impossible to collect myself.

We had reached. Our car was outside the gate dad bid me luck and assumed I would step out and go in. I couldn’t. I couldn’t move at all; I was frozen with fear. Frozen with the thought of humiliation and I blurted out, “Dad, I can’t go, let’s just go home.”

My dad stared at me; he had never seen me panic before.

“What’s going on? Is everything ok? Are you ok?” He asked as any rational person would.

“It’s nothing. Let’s go, please,” I replied as my heart got ready to leap out of my chest and tears lined my eyes.

He finally understood what was happening and, he replied,

“No.”

I stared at him, my throat all choked up.

He put his hand on my shoulder,

“You’re going in and, everything will be fine. You don’t have to be nervous.

He asked me to step out of the car and go to the dance; my frozen body was unwillingly unwinded. I opened the car door and got out, searching desperately for a friendly face before stepping into the warzone.

I finally spotted my best friend behind the gate, with a few of our other friends, and rushed towards her in my uncomfortable heels. She looked beautiful, all of them did and my disappointment rose.

It’s funny; how, when you’re miserable, you want everyone around you to be as miserable, as you feel. No matter how close your relationship might be and how good a person you claim you are. We’re all the same, petty humans at times and great when we can be.

They looked at me and greeted me as they usually did with no raised eyebrows, no petty comments. Just a big smile and a warm, casual hug greeted me that finally brought down my nerves. They had never cared how I looked before, and that acceptance and love was more than I had asked for and better than any transformation I had hoped.

I left my inner inhibitions behind that day, threw them out as I realized that the only people’s opinion that mattered was my own and of the people I loved, rest everyone else’s was just white noise.

The dance went fine. There were some awkward glances and occasional stares but, after the initial shock of everybody’s coming to age appearance, people stopped noticing and just had fun. I realized everybody had been awkward and nervous about that day. They were too busy trying to hide their own insecurities to notice someone else’s. It all somehow worked out. I didn’t get the gasps or the stares of the beautiful transformation I had wanted but, I also did not get picked on for failing to be a grand improvement.

And I was ok with that.

I have since then let go of the notion of caring about how others see me and instead work towards how I see myself.

Two years later, at another dance, I was awarded the title of Miss Elegant personified. I was still the same dangly, paper-thin person with just shorter hair and wore the same outfit as my 10th-grade dance.

Isn’t that funny?

I clearly remember that day.

I had walked in with a downhearted face after a fight at home and was expecting to remain at my status quo throughout the dance but, all of that changed when they announced the titles. I couldn’t comprehend it initially when they called my name. I thought it was a mistake and remained where I was, but my friends pushed me to go. When I got on the stage, the principal stretched out her hand and congratulated me before handing the award and then casually whispered in my ear to eat more, as I looked quite skinny.

I smiled, let the comment fall off my back, and carried that award back proudly.

As I walked, I finally got the stares and compliments I had always wanted but no longer yearned.