Amanda Filipacchi - The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty

Dr. Miriam Levy (Clinical Psychologist)

Im waiting for my new patient to arrive, not suspecting that within the next hour shell reveal herself to be the most interesting patient Ive ever had.

Her name is Barb Colby. When we spoke on the phone, she claimed to be twenty-eight years old, but the woman who waddles into my office looks at least forty. Shes quite overweight and tall, with glasses and frizzy gray hair. As I gaze at her face more closely, however, I notice that her skin isnt wrinkled. Perhaps she was telling the truth about her age.

She takes a seat.

What brings you here? I ask.

Its my mothers dying wish that I see a therapist.

Oh, Im sorry. Your mother is dying? I make a note of this in my pad.

No. Shes in great health, thankfully. But its an early request. When she tried asking for it as her birthday present, I ignored it.

I cross out my note. Why does your mother want you to see a therapist?

Because she doesnt like the way I look.

The way you look at life? I say, not wishing to be presumptuous a second time.

Barb seems confused. Maybe that, but what I mean is she doesnt like my appearance.

Ah. And she feels this issue would best be tackled psychologically?

Yes.

As opposed to joining a gym or getting a makeover, for example? I ask, just to be certain.

That is correct.

What does she dislike about the way you look? The answer seems obvious, but again, its best not to assume anything.

She doesnt like my hair, my fat, my clothes, my glasses.

I keep making notes in my pad as she talks. I nod and say, I see. Im glad your mother convinced you to seek help. I think I can help you. In my work, I see a lot of women who suffer from low self-esteem. They think theyre unattractive, but the way society today

I dont think Im unattractive, she says.

Thats good. Thats great. Its not something women are always aware of on a conscious level, though. So, I would like you to be open-minded to the possibility that perhaps, deep down, you might be feeling unattractive without being aware of it. And if thats the case, you might feel theres no point in even trying to look better.

Yeah but, no. I dont think Im unattractive. And I dont think it subconsciously either.

I smile. If its subconscious, you wouldnt know it.

Your comments are entirely influenced by the fact that you think Im unattractive, she says. If you thought I were beautiful, you wouldnt be suggesting I might subconsciously think Im ugly.

No need to get defensive. And anyway, what I think doesnt matter. Its what you think that matters. I want to try to help you to find yourself beautiful.

I already do.

Thats good. And Id like to get you to take baby steps toward making more effort with your appearance, if thats something you want.

I make great effort with my appearance.

I guess your mother doesnt agree, right? Thats why youre here.

Yes, she does. She wants me to make less effort with my appearance.

Less effort? What effort would she like you to make less of?

She doesnt reply.

Can you give me an example?

She remains silent.

That shouldnt be too hard, right? To come up with just one example? I say, clasping my hands (smugly, I must admit).

No, its not too hard, she replies.

Okay, then, Im all ears.

Its not your ears you need. Its your eyes, she says, taking off her glasses and setting them on the little table next to her.

She reaches down into her bag and pulls out a small plastic container. She unscrews the lid. She sticks her fingers in each of her eyes and removes brown contact lenses, which she then drops into the plastic container.

She looks at me and her gaze is dazzling. The effect is that of light shining through aqua-colored glass.

She gets up, sinks her hands into her gray frizzy hair and pulls it off, revealing an incredible head of long, silky blond hair. She tosses the wig on a chair.

Im trying to gather my thoughts, think of something to say, when she starts unbuttoning her shirt. She takes it off. Underneath is a thick jacket which she unzips and peels off as well. Shes wearing a little white tank top. Her torso is slender, her breasts full, her arms toned.

Not taking her piercing aqua gaze off me, she unzips her jeans, takes them off. She then unzips the fake-fat pants shes wearing underneath and slides her long slender legs out of each thick leg tube. She tosses these pants on top of her other clothes on a chair in the corner. The whole pile jiggles like a mountain of Jell-O.

Barb pulls fake teeth out of her mouth and places them next to her contacts on the little table. I hadnt noticed her teeth being particularly unattractive, and yet, somehow, the removal of this fake set tremendously improves the shape of her mouth. Her real teeth are lovely. Framed by her beautiful hair and punctuated by her real teeth, her face is now noticeably exquisite.

I need time, a few days, maybe, to think. I feel put on the spot.

My new patient is standing in my office in her underwear majestic. Shes probably the most beautiful woman Ive ever seen. She reminds me of one of those superheroes after removing their ordinary clothes. She is now ready for action. I almost expect her to open the window and fly out of my office.

The effect is muted somewhat when she scratches her arm self-consciously, though thats an understandable display of discomfort, considering that her therapist is gawking at her.

Do you understand, now? she asks.

I look down at the note I wrote in my pad, which reads: Mother wants her to make more effort with her appearance.

I cross out the word more and replace it with less.

Yes, I see, I say. How often do you wear this disguise?

All the time, pretty much.

Why?

I find my real appearance impractical.

But isnt your disguise even more impractical? Isnt it heavy?

Yes, its a bit heavy. But I feel much lighter in it. Being dowdy is liberating.

Liberating in what way?

She shrugs. Im left in peace.

Peace from what?

She doesnt answer.

From men? Model scouts? Love at first sight?

She says nothing.

When did you start wearing it?

Almost two years ago, she says.

Did something happen?

She doesnt answer.

I repeat, Did something happen, almost two years ago, that made you start wearing this costume?

She looks suddenly weak, visibly upset. She sits down, drapes her shirt over herself, no longer resembling a superhero so much as a lost girl from a fairy tale. She doesnt say anything.

Tell me what happened, I urge softly, suspecting abuse, sexual harassment, possibly rape.

I can tell shes having trouble. She doesnt want to cry, but if she attempts to speak, she will.

I try a different approach. People must find it surprising that you go around looking like this. Do you get a sense of what they think?

Sure, they think Im fat and ugly.

No, I mean the people whove known you longer than two years?

They think I got fat and ugly.

Really? Is there anyone, other than your mother, who knows that this is just a disguise and not the way you really look now?

Only my four closest friends.

If I were to ask your mother or your closest friends why you disguise yourself this way, what would they tell me?

She shrinks a little further into her chair, and again cant answer.

What would they tell me? I repeat.

BARB

As soon as my therapy session is over, I rush home, slip some evening wear over my bloat wear, and find my friend Georgia already waiting for me in a cab in front of my building. I scoot in beside her. She shifts along the seat to give me the room I need.