When you hear the term late bloomer, you probably might imagine an angsty teen staring hard at a bathroom mirror, wondering when the gift of the boob will be bestowed upon her. That, or she’s waiting for the day she can join the period gang. Or some young chap wondering if beard gang is his portion.
First of all, boobs are overrated, and secondly, periods are not something any sane person should EXCITEDLY look forward to. Beards? I’ll leave that area for the menfolk. Sure, they’re generally a sign of fertility and the ability to have offspring, but really, apart from that, they’re not really needed.
Women (well, those who want it anyway) need a factory reset button or some kind of warranty that allows us to return the factory we came from and request for the non-period version of life.
The other day, I was seated in my room (as usual) and came to the humble conclusion that I’m a late bloomer. I don’t really know how this thought materialized – to be honest, I don’t know how most of my thoughts do – but I guess you could say I arrived at this conclusion after a deep thought about my life so far. Firstly, please note that when I say late bloomer, I don’t mean any of the examples I stated at the beginning of this post – I, unfortunately, got the visit from nature ON TIME and I’m HAPPY with my boobs, or lack thereof.
Anyway, when I say late bloomer, I am referring to matters of enhancing appearance. You’re probably confused at this point but let me explain. In high school. I was part of an awesome group of black girls. We had a blast, laughing our hearts out on our coveted lunchtime spot. Anyway, clearly we were different and developed at different rates. I have this friend, let’s call her X. she’s always been into hair and makeup – I remember she used to do hair and also remember when she started off doing makeup. Now she’s got her own makeup business. I’m so freaking proud. Anyway, the other day I was comparing my development to hers and other girls.
I’m a fairly non-high maintenance person (aka lazy) I don’t wear earrings, get frequent manicures/pedicures and definitely don’t have a full-blown hair regimen (cries in no edges). I’m glad I started learning makeup in 2014/2015 because I’ve come a long way from those days of black pencil brows and ghost white foundation, but I believe I still have a long way to go. Even with makeup, I’m still yet to master scary things like eyeshadow, eyeliner and other eye related works. My sense of style coordinates are wrong most of the time and generally I don’t care = scruffy days.
You may not think it matters much, but I do. Deep down, I value looking good because when you look good, a lot of the time you feel better. A couple weeks ago I wore an Ankara top on top of a white bodycon sleeveless dress to church. It was the best outfit I’ve ever worn in 2019 – it gave me this confidence I didn’t have before. I was definitely feeling myself. Is this how people who actually bother about their appearance feel all the time? I wanted more.
I’d like for one day to be able to wear heels instead of hobbling like a newborn giraffe. I’d like for my outfit to be fire from top to bottom, tight where it needs to be and loose where necessary. I’d even like to don a few accessories, look classy with my hair beaten into submission. Unfortunately, the slightest sign of discomfort and I’m like NOPE.
Based on this, I’ve just had to accept that I’ll figure things out eventually. After all, the Amaka from 5 years ago didn’t really wear wigs, always did ‘Bob Marley’ braids (black) and didn’t really do much appearance wise. While others seem to have grasped certain concepts like the face beat, hair did movement, I guess I’ll need to take things slowly, and enjoy the journey.