I spent a fair amount of time in my youth hating the dark little moles on my face, chest and arms. At school I would always be very aware of eye contact, because I feared that if they weren’t making eye contact it was because they were staring at the two most prominent moles on my left cheek. At home I’d have to self consciously laugh along when my siblings teased me about the “little bug poops” on my body. They were the small in size, but a large part of my insecurities growing up.
I remember one time I tried to cover them with makeup. When it didn’t work I scratched and scratched and scratched until my body was red, irritated and in pain. I cried. It was rough. I remember thinking I could never be pretty with these stupid black dots on my stupid body,
It took me a long time (and one actual doctor’s visit in which I urged him to check that they weren’t cancerous tumors that might best be removed immediately) to accept these odd little parts of my body. It took friends/boyfriends calling them beauty marks and reassuring me that they weren’t as hideous as I believed them to be. It took years of living my life without tying my self worth to what my face looked like.
These days, I don’t much mind the marks hanging out on my skin. Every once in a while the “beauty is symmetry” thing will rear it’s ugly head. I’ll glance at the mirror and lament my lot in life, but not for long. Never for long. The beauty marks are part of the lovable, maddening, unique person that is me. I will wear them when I love them and play connect the dots when I don’t.