Some 10 or 20 years later as I am lying on my therapist's couch, I can already see the shape of the conversation that would take place.

"So tell me how you can be both extremely conscious of your appearance and at the same time not care at all about your appearenace? Don't you feel that this is a contridiction?" My fictional therapist would ask as I sit on the couch day dreaming about the past 20 or so years and what I would have changed.

"Grow up with my mother." would be my short, to the point and pithy response.

:-p

Don't get me wrong, I'm not exactly complaining about my mother I mean after 22 years you'd think I'd get used to it. And I know all the usual arguements and justifications.. yes she grew up in a time when looks were frightfully important rather than intelligence and therefore priorities on appearance rather than on a career or anything else.

Instead, what this post is really about is this strange realization I've come to, that having people around you that somehow or other make you feel that you're not as pretty as everyone else (whether through outright telling you or just making you feel inadequate in that department)has a twin effect in opposite directions.

What do I mean by this? Well firstly there's the total rebellion effect. The well-no-matter-what-I-do-I-can't-be-pretty-anyway-so-why-should-I-bother-effect. That, of course, speaks for itself.

More surprising is that the opposite is also true. I admit that most of the time the first effect is predominant, I'm usually in jeans and a t-shirt. My mum complains I dress like a boy and when I'm on campus I pretty much don't bother to correct that impression. But occasionally I feel like dressing up. My housemates and I once compared this and I think I am the only one who actually doesn't much mind getting hit on by guys or getting stares from them as i walk down the street in a short skirt. I suspect part of this is that I grew up in an area so safe that I can't imagine any danger happening to me personally, but the other half is that for me that's kind of another kind of rebellion.. proving some imaginary part of my brain that repeats everything my mother says at me, wrong.

So on the one side, you get the no make up, not even colour-coordinated, randomly dressed me, and on the other, this elaborately crafted outfit usually involving some attention-grabbing colour and even more attention-grabbing lack of length of skirt complete with matching socks and makeup that is also me.

I suspect my therapist is going to have a field day.
But then, first she's going to have to contend with all the other (probably more severe)stuff... like how I am going to tell my mum that no, I don't want plastic surgery.