Although I wore dresses and skirts, it was usually with a pair of shorts underneath

THE COURAGE TO BE CUTE
Karen R. Good believed that pretty was a privilege--until she decided it was a choice

Growing up, I considered myself a tomboy. Although I wore dresses and skirts, it was usually with a pair

of shorts underneath so I could break into a sprint or kick up my leg if I felt like it. At dances, I

wore second-skin jeans, one of Daddy's undershirts and a crisp, white pair of tennis shoes--Fila or K-

Swiss--because I liked to move. I wasn't a girly girl. And I certainly didn't think I was pretty. I was

a dark-skinned Black girl raised under a hot South Texas sun in the 1970's. Long face, high forehead,

braces and a loud mouththat disguised a deep shyness, I can't count how many times I'd been called

blackie, or worse.

This was classic ugly duckling business that, to this day, must be monitored. I still get anxious

sometimes when I walk past a group of guys for fear of ridicule. Or I'll find myself walking with my

head down. But, you know, you grow up; move to New York City; become a woman. Realize that you enjoy

pretty things, like lace, lingerie and beautiful shoes. You begin to understand that insanity is

allowing the (real and imagined) opinions of others to dictate how you feel about yourself. Never was

this more apparent than when I took a job at a popular fashion and lifestyle magazine. Working in an

environment where style was celebrated, indeed requisite, was both exasperating and thrilling.

Exasperating because of the silly--and seductive--pretentiousness. Thrilling because every day was an

inspiration: the pretty brown beauty editor who favored fabulous five-inch heels; the breezy, elegant

fashion editor who was a style savant; the researcher with the voluminous hair. I marveled at their

flagrant, playful embrace of their beauty. Thought it was the bravest thing.

Then came picture day. The staff was asked to wear black for a photo that would appear in the magazine.

That morning I dressed myself in a pair of black pants, a blousy top and a pair of black fourinch heels,

respectable Jessica Simpson--Gucci knockoffs. I wanted a pop of color and reached for my tomato red

Kenneth Jay Lane earrings--big, Spanish-inspired, perfect.

My heart raced at the audacity of boarding the 9:00 A.M. subway so decked out. Who did I think I was?

Tipping on the tightrope between honoring oneself and vanity wasn't easy. But when Raven, the security

guard, complimented me on my look, I felt like Tracy Chambers in Mahogany after the Italian billionaire

stands up at the fashion show and bids "Twenty million lire!" for her design. Triumphant. Not that being

cute is about outside validation; that day it was about celebrating my choice to be a swan.

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