|Monalisa minus the mumps|
You see, she wants the world to see what she sees in the mirror.
Candid clicks are a big no and you can’t get away with just one shot. You are expected to click her again and again from different angles. It’s not because she doesn’t trust you. Experience and many ugly mugshots have taught her that you and your camera take time to warm up to her loveliness. So, she is willing to say cheese 17 times, just for the sake of a priceless capture. The one she can proudly show to her grandkids, when she gets old and wrinkled. Then she will grandly inspect all the shots you took and make you promise to delete the unflattering ones. If you don’t, you risk her wrath. If you upload it on Facebook, you risk getting killed.
We women have a secret pact – thou shalt not tag/upload any ugly shots of ours. The moment a friend takes out her mobile and aims, we exchange that secret look. “You will make me look the diva that I really am”. Photos that inadvertently capture Christmas indulgences spilling out of our jeans or make us look like a hungry hippopotamus, are meant live happily ever after in the recycle bin. Since most photos are clicked for the sake of Facebook, we make sure each one of us is informed once they have been uploaded. And then we wait for the comments to follow. Look aghast when only 15 friends like it. Pretend to blush when someone gushes about how we look.
|Follow the instructions carefully.|
In my distorted opinion, we women spend 33.3% of their lives complimenting each other about our looks.
One look at a new profile pic on a social networking site and you’ll know what I’m talking about. Out of the 55 comments she gets, 49 will be from her girlfriends – Ooo, you gorgeous thing! Again there’s a secret pact. In a parallel universe it’s called reciprocity. You praise me and I will praise you back – get it?
I blame social networking sites. Before Facebook, we’d quietly click a few dozen pics of us frolicking in Gulmarg, stick them inside an album with a floral cover, wait for relatives to come over and pounce on them. They’d leaf through the albums, sip Rooh Afza and make a few appreciative noises. That was it. To be called beautiful, we had to solely rely on the free services provided by roadside Romeos. Of course, verbally challenged Kamal Kumar could only express his appreciation by whistling. And that was perfectly okay!
|The Hungry hippopotamus look.|
And now thanks to our 567 online friends, who spend all their waking hours waiting to like you and your pics, how can you not believe that you are God’s gift to mankind?
Men seem to be under the impression that we dress up for them. Let me roll on the floor laughing before I shout – you are so wrong! Nope, we dress up for other femmes. Only a woman is capable of noticing the finer nuances of our appearance – the all new plum shade of lipstick, the perfectly tailored trouser that sits so flatteringly on our bum, the brand new clunky watch! And it takes us exactly 10 seconds before we furnish this appraisal. Now turn towards your man and all he will be able to muster is – looking nice, babe! We try our best not look affronted and smile painfully. Yes, it hurts to be called nice. It hurts more if someone calls you cute and it hurts the most when someone has the audacity to suggest – Erm! You look better in your photographs.
Try saying that and you will be hurled out like yesterday’s chapatis.
It’s because all of us would like to believe, that we are prettier and slimmer than our pics. But if you want to risk lifelong affection from us, try looking for our inner beauty. We are suckers for men who appreciate us for the person we are.
Also published on Huffington Post, India