For the love of women
Have you ever noticed how beautiful women are? Not the kind of beauty that depends solely on face structure or the era’s standard of feminine aesthetics. Instead, the beauty that is a distilled essence of the woman herself. I have long noticed this value but had no words to shape the thoughts. Until a recent epiphany that came in a most ordinary encounter.
A sage green mini cooper swooped into a perfect parallel by the curb. The right door flung open, catching our attention, and out popped the head of the driver. Her beauty was benign — subtle and inviting — her face framed by wispy strands that evaded the loose grasp of a low bun.
As we walked by, she called out to us “Hiya ladies! Anyone know of a shortcut I can take to Bray? I don’t want to use the M50.” We approached her with regretful news: all five of us were not only foreigners but also mere bus and tram riders — in fact, one of us had no idea what ‘Bray’ was.
“Oh.. that’s too bad,” she said with a light Irish accent, cheeks flushed in frustration. “I’ve been driving for two hours now. I’m just back from a John Mayer concert, you see, and I really want to get home!” With that, the five of us huddled closer around the car. Oh, two hours! But the concert must have been great! You look lovely, by the way! I can only imagine how tired you must be. Let’s ask the people in that car for directions, they should be able to help.
It was the necessary rite of encouraging a frustrated woman who was lost and looking for directions. As we spoke, I watched her eyes light up, as though her near-empty tank had been refilled by the interaction.
We entrusted her to the strangers with a car, bid her farewell, and continued our evening walk. We prattled on about how beautiful she was, and how we related to that intense need to get home and take off the day’s burdens. As the conversation rose to an excited chatter, I watched my companions talk for some time. I watched their soft murmuring interjected with loud shouts for emphasis; their giggles at the jokes being shared; short bursts of jumping and wild gesturing. All beautiful.
I love looking at women. More precisely, I love noticing the details that are the fruit of a woman’s nature. The stray hairs that glisten beneath the sunlight. The way her legs are crossed elegantly or splayed out in nonchalance. The extra accessory on her head that adds a colorful touch to an otherwise ordinary outfit — yet there’s nothing ordinary about women.
It’s the strength in some voices and the lightness in others. The way they tuck their feet in on the train or bounce them in delight when the conversation gets exciting. A quiet fortitude or a bubbly extroversion. Eyelashes batting at the world beyond them, eyes perceiving in the deepest sense of it. Set to defy the world or to succumb to it.
Why is it often said that women have strong intuition? They observe the world and adjust — sometimes they rebel, but every step they take is informed by observation. Keen creatures they are.
Both their eagerness and reluctance are beautiful. The slight movements of fingers, to adjust, brush away, fix. Intentional, maybe not always precise. Hair flowing down the back, hair on the shoulders, hair that barely grows to the ears, hair shrunk into a tight-coiled afro, or no hair. The embellished nails that hold a phone daintily. The natural nails that are a result of preference, indecision or transition.
Her vessel — frail or strong — holds the concentrate of womanhood, a pure and potent fragrance. And every time she appears in the world, the perfume of Woman, douses our senses with undeniable beauty.
