Word: pageants
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...knowing that girls envy your legs and that a few straight men fancy you over their current girlfriends (you know who you are). But as anyone who has endured plastic surgery—i.e., Michael, Janet or LaToya—knows, beauty is pain. As I prepared for the pageant, I had to ask myself, “What will it take to be Miss Harvard?” More importantly (as my preparations proceeded): “What injuries am I going to sustain...
First, Miss Harvard could not be hairy. Due to the sheer length and volume of my leg hair, a lawn mower would have been easier to use than my Gillette Mach 3. The night before the pageant, as I stood naked in the bathtub, warm water running, I watched inch-long hairs peel off into a watery mélange of foamy white shaving cream and occasional drops of blood. I awkwardly maneuvered my body as I shaved the rear of my thighs, only breaking more skin in my futile attempt to be careful and precise. An analgesic layer...
...likely to crack under the pressure, especially if you have turkey-shaped thighs like me. As I grew more comfortable, I added sass to my walk. Hips, then thighs and, bam, a surprise—I could finally work it. There would be no twisted ankles after the pageant, just a sore lower body. The adrenaline pumping during the competition kept me from noticing immediately, but the morning after my victory I felt lactic acid saturating my quadriceps and calves. Climbing stairs became a difficult task and I was walking funny for a week...
...simple to select sleazy clothes from my favorite thrift stores, I was incapable of making my acne vanish and my lips shine. What to do? I enlisted the help of Brooke L. Chavez ’04. A veteran beauty queen, Brooke agreed to serve as my pageant coach and my makeup artist. She introduced me to the wonders of concealer: It could not only erase acne, but also awaken tired, bag-ridden eyes. She taught me to make my lips appear fuller by applying lipstick on the flesh surrounding the lips. “Girls...
Miss Harvard should carry herself with poise and confidence. During the pageant itself I found my greatest test. Prior to the talent competition, I stood outside Leverett Dining Hall in a dimly lit alley waiting for the stage door to open. Three local youths—two women and a guy—approached me with their bloodshot eyes and the stench of alcohol on their breath. The male pressed me to take off my wig. He wanted to run on stage, he explained, and shout expletives at the “faggots” in drag. I told...