How I Learned To Embrace My “Resting Bitch Face”
What It’s Like To Be Told To Smile More Your Entire Life
My first memory of becoming self-conscious about my face was around the age of seven, when my mother mentioned casually that I looked prettier when I smiled.
Even as a child, I understood the unspoken message — I was not pretty when I didn’t smile.
At that age, I thought it was ridiculous.
Why would I have to force myself to smile if I didn’t feel like it? What’s wrong with my normal, expression-less face?
When I turned twelve, I got into a fight that almost turned physical with a boy in class.
He was one of the “naughty kids” that always caused trouble.
One day, he said to me: “You’d look fine if you just cover up the bottom half of your face.”
I almost hit him with a broom — we were on cleaning duty for the classroom that day.
Fast forward to adulthood, I finally learned of a name for the predicament I had been in my entire life revolving around my face — apparently, I suffer from something called the “resting bitch face”.
