Stuck In Between

When puberty began, I went from being a fragile flower into a tall strong tree. My mother was in awe of my "beauty" and told me I should be a model, something a thirteen-year-old girl would normally push to pursue. But I was a tomboy who was too interested in Baseball and Xbox to even consider the idea. 

The older I got, the more in touch with my feminine side I became. I let my hair grow long and discovered the magical art of make-up. Photographers found something interesting about me that made them want to work with me. Naturally I felt special and accepted their offer. 

Together we created beautiful images. The more I collaborated with different artists, the better the photographs would become - telling stories through the art of photography. I also became more and more comfortable in my own skin and learned to embrace the space when I was before the camera. 

My figure became curvy and womanly, my skin wouldn't break out as bad and I developed my own sense of style. 

When people saw the photos of me, I started receiving comments online and on the street like,

"I know a model!"

"Are you a model? That's so cool!"

"You should do it professionally, you have the height!"

Wait.... what... a….model? 

That foreign word bounced around in my brain and made me sick to my stomach. 

In the deepest darkest part of my mind, that place we know but try not visit, where all our fears and insecurities live and grow if we feed them, was festering. My self-esteem lowered quickly and my thoughts grew dark.

Being associated with the term model made me feel queasy.

“Why?” Do you ask? The modelling industry is so glamorous, expensive and high fashion. Surely I’m as good as those gorgeous Victoria Secret models, right?

Wrong. In my mind, I was way too big to be a model.

I’m a C-cup, my thighs jiggle, my upper arms have excess fat and my stomach is definitely not flat. Models don’t have these attributes; to us they are living dolls with glowing skin, shiny moisturised hair and tidy nails.

I became cynical about it. Every time someone asked me if I were a model, I would tell them the same thing,

“No I’m not. I just take photos for fun. I’m too big to be a model. But it’s okay! That’s just how the fashion industry is!”

I thought by repeating these words, it would help me accept myself for who I am, but it only crossed off something I was undeniably passionate about. But I didn’t stop taking pictures.

When I was nineteen, that’s when the plus-size model phenomenon began. Where women who are size 16 and over were being recognized as beautiful, worthy figures. They are idolized for inspiring women who do not fit the bracket under a size 8.

-- I’m not shunning plus size women. I too think it’s inspiring seeing these extremely voluptuous bodies in Vogue magazine. Nor do I dislike women who are quite thin; in fact, I think they are walking pieces of art.

Am I the only one who is going to say it?

What about the women stuck in between?

Not big or small. Not normal, because who the fuck gets to define the term normal anyway? I’m talking about those who are stuck in-between. Women like me are put in this awkward position where you either have to lose 15kg or put on 15kg in order to be a successful model.

As a matter of fact, I express my confusion and anger on behalf of EVERY woman who has ever felt uneasy with their body; feeling too big, too small or despising themselves in general.

We are only starting to realise the harsh effect the media has on our body image. They tell us we are all beautiful, but how many times have the media put this into practise without categorising women like different flavours of ice-cream? We are taught to believe that the things that make us physically unique are flaws. We are conditioned to think accepting ourselves is narcissistic and hating ourselves is the best option.

Obviously no one is literally saying this is how we should feel, but the under tone is there.

Self-esteem issues are at an all time high and I blame social media, because it perpetuates the thought that external validation is the pursuit of happiness; that your happiness is measured and defined by the size of your waist.

This is not going to change, so why should we?

What needs to happen is the media needs to stop patting themselves on the back every time they introduce a new inspirational woman to the world as if they created it themselves. And we as a society need to stop buying into it.

I don’t want to be categorised I’m not going let anyone categorise me or let the media trick me into categorising myself.

I guess what I’m saying is, trust yourself, do what makes you happy and be who ever the fuck you want.

Why I Really Cut My Hair

Hair. It’s amazing how something so normal can make up such a large portion of who we are. How it can shift our personality and make us act differently. Finding the right style is like finding yourself. Until you find the perfect one, you’re playing a character.

I’ve experimented with different colors and styles in the last year alone. I was bored and wanted to try new things. It was during my gap year after I finished high school, so I had a lot of time on my hands. I went through multiple shades of red, back to brown, to jet-black, to auburn then platinum blonde for the first time.

Being blonde was an ugly attack on my self-esteem. It was impossible to brush and kept going brassy. There were times were I felt like crying because it looked horrible and hurt every time I attempted to comb it. I splurged on expensive products made especially for blonde hair to keep it healthy, shiny and silvery. It was dyed for a film project that meant a lot to me, so I bit the bullet and dealt with the massive change. I felt like It didn’t suit me and it really affected the way I was acting. Even though I received more attention from males than ever, I didn’t feel confident in my own skin. I didn’t feel like Lyndsey.

So after I found out the film project had reached its peak, I didn’t have a second thought. There was no point dying it an artificial brown color and still have it feel like dead straw draping over my shoulders. I wasn’t into the crazy bold colors of the rainbow. I decided I was going to chop it all off.

My friends advised me not too, mainly because it would be a massive shock to them and would struggle getting use to it. I’ve had long hair most of my life, but I needed a change; and not just any change, a positive attitude adjustment that would help me shape my life.

“Are you ready?” The hairdresser asked as I sat in the chair, staring at myself in the mirror with my long golden locks.

“Do it.” I said. And with that, she took the scissors, grabbed my hair and unevenly chopped it and threw the remains on the ground. It now sat at my shoulders, a look I hadn’t seen in a decade. She waited for tears or a scream; maybe she’d experienced this before. Where some crazy teenager wanted a cut to liberate herself then regretted it five seconds afterwards.

“Are you okay?” She asked, looking at my face with concern. I simply smiled up at her and shrugged my shoulders.

“Its just hair. Shorter please.”

And that brings me to the hair I have today. Shortest I’ve ever had it, back to my natural dark brown, healthy and radiant. Using less shampoo and conditioner, not having to brush it so often, getting dressed easier, kissing my boyfriend without hair falling in his face. There are so many advantages to having short hair and I absolutely love it!

Physically it’s a big change, but so was my blonde hair. I’ve embraced the beauty of short hair and the pros that come with it. There’s something liberating about the process of cutting long hair super short.

But the main change is feeling like me again. Cutting my hair after all the crap I did to it a year earlier, symbolized a fresh start for me; a new beginning. All my worries, issues, problems and negative thoughts were chopped off and thrown in the bin. My hair is short enough that baggage can’t attach itself to me. It no longer holds me back and makes me feel ugly.

I’ve never felt more beautiful. I feel more connected to who I am as a person. I’m not worried about how my hair looks anymore because it sits out of the way naturally. I’m more focused on my character development and just doing things. As I grow mentally, spiritually and emotionally; my hair grows with me.

It’s also funny to see the cocky neighbors across the street that used to wolf whistle and hit on me whilst I was blonde, stare at me weirdly with short hair.

Whether people like it or not, is the least of my worries. I’m proud of myself for being brave and taking a leap of faith to trust my instincts and change for the better.

Peace and love. 

Lyndsey Fay