In my early twenties, the encounter with a high-quality makeup mirror in a luxury hotel revealed details of my skin I had never noticed - and frankly, didn't want to see. Growing up in an environment where makeup was barely discussed, I had cultivated a natural confidence in my appearance. Perhaps it was a blessing that for years after that hotel experience, I stuck to simple mirrors with their forgiving lighting.
This pattern of selective attention has appeared throughout my life. Every hairdresser has pointed out areas for "improvement" - suggesting treatments for smoother texture, different colors, or various enhancements. Yet I've always loved my hair exactly as it is, especially the way it dances when I run or walk briskly.
In college, I remember being puzzled by a conversation with a male friend about his girlfriends' insistence on specific underwear brands. I couldn't grasp why such details mattered, believing that good quality cotton was all that truly counted. Now I see how people can become fixated on minute details of their bodies and faces, even when these "imperfections" affect neither functionality nor wellbeing.
I wasn't completely immune to this obsession with detail. For about a decade, I succumbed to the siren call of luxury skincare, using airport layovers to purchase expensive creams recommended by friends. Today, I've returned to basics - water, natural oils, and zinc sunscreen. More importantly, I've learned to appreciate both the unique marks I have and those that will inevitably appear with time.
Recently, I've started experimenting with not wearing my glasses despite my mild myopia. The world becomes softly filtered - I see my partner and son clearly while the background gently blurs. Birds still catch my eye as they soar above, but advertising boards fade into insignificance. It's almost like having a natural filter for what truly matters.
While attention to detail was once lauded as a strength in my early professional career, I'm learning there's wisdom in choosing what to see clearly and what to let blur. Sometimes, seeing less allows us to perceive more of what truly matters. In this gentle detachment from superficial details I find a deeper kind of clarity.
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