My mother feels the need to don make-up and totter about in high heels when she has to dress up. My father, on the hand, looks perfectly dressed up wearing his own face sans makeup and in comfortable shoes.
My gorgeous sister is convinced that she has "lost it", simply because she has gained a few pounds over the years.
My mother-in-law owns a beauty parlour which does good business no matter what the country's financial or political climate because women's insecurities remain stable no matter how many people were blown up, a few neighbourhoods away.
During my teenage years, I would regularly cry myself to sleep and pray to Allah to make me beautiful because each time I looked in the mirror, I saw ugliness.
At the same time, I hate makeup or rather that men do not have to wear it. I hate that us, women have so much pressure put on us to look good.
I hate the well-meaning suggestions on how I could improve my appearance by putting on a lipstick or have my hair styled.
I hate that so many women think that they have to do all this, just to feel good about themselves.
This morning, I saw Madonna's hairy pit selfie. While all these years, the only thing I liked about Madonna was the light beat of her tunes, I read an extract of an interview she did a few years ago and immediately felt a connection to the woman who for years, turned me off with her pointy-boob suits.
"Drinking beer and smoking weed in the parking lot of my high school was not my idea of being rebellious, because that's what everybody did. And I never wanted to do what everybody did. I thought it was cooler to not shave my legs or under my arms. I mean, why did God give us hair there anyways? Why didn't guys have to shave there? Why was it accepted in Europe but not in America? No one could answer my questions in a satisfactory manner, so I pushed the envelope even further… But it was hard and it was lonely, and I had to dare myself every day to keep going… And I wondered if it was all worth it, but then I would pull myself together and look at a postcard of Frida Kahlo taped to my wall, and the sight of her mustache consoled me."