The Allure of Imperfection: Why I’m Trading LA’s Obsession with Beauty for London’s Embrace of Reality
After a decade in the City of Angels, I find myself increasingly drawn back to London, my true home. It’s more than just a yearning for familiar comforts; it’s an escape from the relentless pursuit of an unattainable ideal – the mothership of insecurity, as I’ve come to call it. I’m not convinced this pursuit is beneficial for anyone, especially now, as we seem to be hurtling towards the very peak of unrealistic beauty standards.
Consider the current ideal: a teenager’s physique coupled with the curves of a woman, a complete absence of body hair below the eyebrows, eyes shaped like those of an Asian, but with Caucasian colouring, Eastern European cheekbones, a meticulously refined button nose resembling a somewhat attractive Voldemort, African lips, Indian hair, and Korean skin. Skin tone must be perfectly balanced, neither too light nor too dark, and absolutely no signs of ageing or the effects of gravity are permitted, regardless of how long one has lived.
No pores. No blemishes. No laughter lines. A labia that is petite, but not excessively so – fillers are now available to ensure it maintains a “puffy” appearance. And let’s not even begin to delve into the stringent expectations surrounding one’s nether regions.
The truly absurd part is that, for a sum easily reaching hundreds of thousands of pounds, along with countless hours, considerable pain, discomfort, and a notable degree of risk – including the possibility of a swift and unpleasant demise – you can potentially achieve this artificial perfection. And then, perhaps, you’ll finally be deemed “enough”.
A friend of mine very nearly died on an operating table in Turkey, all in the name of chasing this impossible standard. But to what end? For whose benefit? Are we truly doing this for ourselves? I think not. I’m simply too old and too wise to believe that. Lockdown revealed what we truly look like when the world isn’t watching. It was more “Chucky” than “Barbie”.
The Homogenisation of Beauty
While I wouldn’t suggest that the UK is entirely immune to these pressures, I’ve observed a worrying trend among my friends. The allure of fillers, Botox, weight-loss injections, and even whispers of facelifts has begun to infiltrate our shores. We’re dipping our toes into dangerous territory. However, the pressure to conform to a single, monolithic beauty standard isn’t as intense here as it is in Los Angeles. Over there, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to distinguish one person from another. Individuality is no longer a priority. The objective is to win the race towards achieving the universally desired face and body – obedience rebranded as “discipline”.
Embracing Imperfection: A British Tradition
Thankfully, disobedience is deeply ingrained in our culture, our history, and our very being on this side of the Atlantic. We embrace messy, unkempt hair, slightly yellow teeth, chapped lips, and experimental fashion choices. We’re not particularly skilled at applying heavy makeup, and we have little patience for shapewear – many of us can barely be bothered to wear a bra. We’re often unsure of the correct jeans size or fit, and we refuse to settle on a single era of style. When I stroll through London’s parks and streets, I often wonder what era an alien would think we were in, based solely on our appearance. In London, you can never quite tell, and that’s the beauty of it – the freedom to do your own thing.
Our national treasures are women like Emma Thompson, Maggie Smith, Judi Dench, Helen Mirren, Kate Winslet, and Joanna Lumley. We don’t share the same obsession with youth. We value a life well-lived, the wisdom that comes with age, and the confidence to wear the passage of time on our faces with pride. After all, despite being a woman in this world, you’re still…alive! Lips aren’t grotesquely inflated, and faces are rarely completely frozen. Our actors express genuine emotions on screen; they don’t resemble emojis. They can cry, wail, and contort their faces to deliver a boisterous “f*** off”. We aren’t subjected to the distracting “Hollywood blur” under the eyes of our middle-aged actresses. It never looks natural and rarely moves convincingly with the face. And tellingly, we never see this treatment applied to men.
A Different Sensibility
When a young Phoebe Waller-Bridge kissed a naturally ageing, post-menopausal Kristin Scott Thomas in Fleabag, nobody batted an eyelid. It didn’t make headlines. Most of us found it rather appealing and perfectly understandable. Hollywood, on the other hand, can tolerate, even celebrate, a 17-year-old Scarlett Johansson kissing a middle-aged Bill Murray in Lost in Translation, but if Timothée Chalamet were to kiss Kathy Bates, the authorities would likely intervene. It’s all rather bizarre.
England is uncomfortable. It’s simultaneously sweltering, freezing, and wet, yet also incredibly dry. You’re never wearing the right amount of clothing. Spending time styling your hair is practically an invitation for rain, wind, and chaos to ruin it during your morning commute. You’ll inevitably end up looking like Mick Hucknall by the time you arrive at work.
We often fall asleep with our makeup on because we stay up too late enjoying life. We still don’t floss – let’s be honest, most of us don’t. Few of us have figured out what toner actually does. Our skin is perpetually dry, and we don’t drink enough water. We’re always tired. Self-care, for us, often means indulging in fun or staying in bed until 4 pm on a Saturday. We’d rather spend our money on festivals.
Since returning home, I’ve never looked worse, yet I’ve never been happier or felt more at peace. I’m in awe of the diversity that has survived the onslaught of social media filters and AI-generated standards of human attractiveness. I appreciate that our actresses don’t look like they’re straining to defecate when they’re trying to cry on screen. I love that my friends order chips with every meal. And I adore that I can see the years of laughter etched on the faces of British women.
I don’t want to die looking stoic and joyless. I want to look like I lived a wild, fun, and utterly crazy life. Like a proper Brit.