Beauty

It’s dead common here. By “here” I mean Los Angeles County, not just the mythical Hollywood. Don’t get me wrong, I like beauty. My friends tend toward extremely attractive as a group. Yes, you do.

If I’m going to have a pastry, I like the decorated ones. I keep the jackets on my books and have been known to purchase one just because I liked the cover. Beauty is good.

On the other hand, beauty can be used as a “get out of kindness free” card. I’d rather be cut off in traffic by a tiny old person who can’t see over the steering wheel than yet another carefree (and careless) Pretty Young Thing of either gender. There was a pretty waitress at my local boite who, in the same conversation, told me “Wow, you eat a lot” and “The way I look, I could get a job anywhere in Hollywood.” She’s not there anymore, maybe she did.

Pretty isn’t as pretty does. Not here. It’s useful, and preferable to the alternative, but here it’s a minimum requirement. The level of expectation is higher, and the punishment for failing to reach it is worse. Los Angeles doesn’t have a court of public opinion, it has a judges’ panel. At least it’s not sexist. The level of expectation is as high for men as it is for women.

In contrast, I know another waitress at a different local restaurant. She isn’t just pretty, she is beautiful. She smiles because she means it, and that shows. So many people happen to be pretty, but when a pretty person is also kind and happy--- that’s when the idea of Beauty regains some meaning.

Aicha, if you’re reading this, I took the food up to Melva’s place myself.