beauty is a knife

hold it by the blade

Here’s a little something I’m not supposed to admit to you. They’ll probably call me a traitor for this. Sling around their favorite word, “whore”. As if we all haven’t been someone else’s whore before.

What I shouldn’t disclose, what I should keep on pretending I don’t know, is the simple truth that being pretty is easily the sharpest weapon a young woman can have. Yes, sharper than all of my New York wit. Sharper even than my freshly filed claws after nail day.

You see, for as long as my hair was long enough to be wrapped around some man’s fist, I’ve known beauty was the knife I’d have to hold against his throat.

We learn this early on, us girls. Gods favorites. The chosen ones do, anyway.

Once our tits come in and our hips are wide enough for child-rearing, us girls are sat down at the foot of our childhood bed. A little known secret swirled in calligraphy on the finest baby pink stationary gently placed on our laps. Lilac scented on purpose so we won’t soon forget the precious bit of knowledge we are about to receive. An invitation to proper womanhood with a clause at the end. Secrecy. So it’s an NDA, if you will. Here we learn, and then swear never again to admit out-loud, that being a woman is fucking awesome. And that we can and should use it against you.

“Man is the one who desires, woman the one who is desired. This is woman's entire but decisive advantage. Through his passion nature has given man into woman's hands, and the woman who does not know how to make him her subject, her slave, her toy, and how to betray him with a smile in the end is not wise.” - Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, Venus in Furs

We’re well aware in order to keep it this way, achieve equilibrium and that greatly sought after world peace, there is but one small ask. (This is where the NDA comes in.) We have to walk around with the burden that we could destroy you with one small smirk, keep this to ourselves and then choose not to every day. Heavy is the head that wears the tiara, however the saying goes.

So we solemnly swear to uphold the notion that you men are really the ones in charge. You in the suit and tie, making big boss man decisions during the day, chasing them down with an old fashioned at night. And don’t you all look so fucking handsome over there, bringing your best Don Draper cosplay to your boardroom meetings.

That kind of power, you can keep to yourselves. Hate to break it to you, stud, but no one really gives a shit about your Dow Jones and S&P 500. All rather dull, all fake numbers, and lord knows us women can’t do math anyway! Hedge fund this, bitcoin that. Your in-real-life game of Monopoly bores us to tears and frankly no woman with any taste would be caught dead in a Patagonia vest.

The kind of power I’m talking about is one that matters in real life. It’s bargaining power in the household. It’s power that influences society. It’s power that stops traffic and cuts lines. Power that starts wars. Power that makes others bend at your will. The kind of power us mere mortals get off on and gets us just a little closer to feeling like gods.

The kind of power bitches kill for.

“What price would we pay, what behavior would we forgive if they weren’t pretty, weren’t temperamental, if they weren’t beyond our reach, a little out of our control? Would we love them like we do?” - Don Draper, Mad Men

Let’s cut the shit. Beauty is undoubtedly a cultural currency that can bring you countless advantages in life. So go, embrace pretty privilege. Use that halo effect to get a better man, a better grade, a better job, a better seat at the table. Men have already rigged the game to their advantage, might as well learn to wink your way to the fucking top.

We won’t ever fit into Don Draper’s suit but we sure as fuck can turn some heads in a Joan Harris dress.