I am embarrassed to admit that I watch the television show Little Miss Perfect, a reality series that follows child beauty queens and their stage mothers in their quest to achieve the title of—you guessed it—Little Miss Perfect (LMP). I stumbled upon this show last year, and my husband walked in the room when I was watching it. He shook his head when he saw a JonBenét Ramsey doppelganger grace the screen. I shouldn’t have told him, but I said, “Wanna hear something scary? I’ve been watching this show for four hours.” (It was a marathon of the first season). Before I could say, “I’m hooked” he left the room.
Later, I tried to understand my fascination with LMP by discussing the show with him. I don’t support “glitz” pageants because they send a message to young girls that hair extensions, false eyelashes, heavy makeup, spray-on tans, and flippers (i.e., a fake tooth mold that hides “unsightly” missing teeth) are necessary in order to be beautiful. However, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the TV that night. I explained to my husband that despite their sh
ortcomings as parents, the mothers genuinely want what is best for their daughters, and they think beauty pageants are the way to a better life. He nodded and replied, “Sure. They’re [the mothers] just getting ready for the Big One.”
“That’s it,” I replied. “The Big One—Miss America, Miss USA, or even Miss Universe. They are thinking about the future.” The conversation with my husband may have ended there, but the one in my head had just started.
Even though I never participated in them, I have always loved beauty pageants. I watched the Miss America and Miss USA pageants every year when I was a child. At that time, the show would display each woman’s score on the television screen up to the thousandth decimal place (e.g., 8.345). My mother and I would sit with a notebook, add up the numbers, and calculate the winner before she was announced to the world. I still remember Bert Parks singing “There She Is, Miss America” until he was dismissed from the show after hosting it for 24 years. Bob Barker, best known for hosting The Price is Right, also emceed the Miss USA pageant from 1967 – 1987. The highlight of these two pageants occurred in 1982—the year my parents separated. I was still living in Fort Smith, Arkansas, with my mother. I’m sure that the entire neighborhood heard our squeals of delight when Miss Arkansas, Terri Utley, won the Miss USA pageant. A few months later, we screamed when Miss Arkansas, Elizabeth Ward, won the Miss America pageant. For years, Arkansas had plaques under its state-line signs at major border crossings; they read, “Welcome to Arkansas. Home of Miss America and Miss USA 1982.” Just like a parent, every state is proud of its beauty queens.
When it comes to their children’s dreams, I believe parents fall into three categories: the Mini Mes, the Better-than Mes, and the Wish-it-were Mes. All three types are on display at the LMP pageants. The Mini Mes are your former beauty queens; they want their daughters to be just like them. The Better-than Mes never experienced the beauty pageant circuit so they want their daughters to have the opportunities they never had. The Wish-it-were Mes fall somewhere in the middle. They either tried beauty pageants and failed or never had the chance to compete. Either way, they live their dreams vicariously through their daughters.
On a recent LMP episode, combination Wish-it-were/Mini Me mom Kelly had a full-blown meltdown when her seven-year-old daughter Trinity failed to place in the top five after forgetting the steps in her dance routine. During the same competition, Better-than Me mother Marie (who had to rent a dress for the Beauty portion of the competition because she couldn’t afford to buy one) beamed as her nine-year-old daughter Taylor became the second runner-up in her first glitz pageant. A tomboy who displayed her incredible karate skills during Wow Wear (i.e., talent) by breaking boards with her bare hands, Taylor is not your typical LMP contestant. She has her own short hair, her own teeth, her natural skin tone, and she wore little makeup until the end. However, Taylor exuded charm, charisma, and confidence. Unlike Trinity, who seemed to be desperately trying to please her mother, Taylor was on that stage because she wanted to be there, and that made all the difference.
I would classify myself as a combination Better-than/Mini Me parent. While I was raising my sister Adrienne, my goal was not only to give her more than I had, but also to lay the foundation for a higher self-esteem at an earlier age. I wanted her to achieve better grades in school than I did, to excel at her art in a way that I never did, and to feel okay in her own skin at a younger age than I did. On some level, I experienced some Mini-me moments because I encouraged her intellect, talent, and creativity—things we had in common, but I never desired a carbon-copy image of myself. I wanted Adrienne to be the best person she could be, and she exceeded even my high expectations.
- She earned a 4.0 GPA after one year of high school.
- She had her art displayed in three Los Angeles galleries by the age of 15.
- She didn’t love every aspect of her body, but she realized that she was attractive even if she was not a size zero.
By comparison, I never achieved a GPA above 3.75 in high school, I never danced a solo, and I still struggle with body issues.
However, I sometimes wonder if I gave the impression—like many LMP moms—that being perfect was the only acceptable outcome. As Adrienne’s drill team coach in elementary school, I pushed her and her peers to perfect every step in their routine. With only seven weeks of practice, I knew we didn’t have a chance of winning since most teams had nine months to work on their dance. However, part of me hoped that the girls could pull it off. As I watched them perform, I kept smiling despite the missed steps, the wrong timing, and the occasional frown. When they finished, I praised them for doing their best even though they had performed much better the day before when they debuted their routine for the school. Adrienne shook her head; she knew the truth—they had failed to be perfect. After a long day, we rode the bus back to school. Even though they had lost, all of the girls talked and laughed—except for Adrienne. She looked at me as tears slid down her face. I still don’t know if she was more upset about losing the competition or disappointing me. I never asked.
Even though it would never occur to me to enter my child in a beauty pageant, I can relate to the LMP mothers. Sure, some of them go too far, push too hard, especially the Wish-it-were Me moms, but I understand wanting your child to be a winner. Pageants teach children how to be disciplined and how to compete—two valuable skills that are necessary in the real world. In many ways, participating in pageants is not that different from being on an athletic team; except the last time I checked, soccer was much cheaper.
AWW — XoXo
P.S. My husband was right. In last night’s episode of LMP, a grandmother said, “This [Little Miss Perfect and other pageants] is something we’re doing until Asia gets Miss America.” Better-than Me grandma may be correct because five-year-old Asia was crowned Little Miss Perfect Nashville after an outstanding, military-inspired Wow Wear routine.
Posted under Adrienne & Beauty/Fashion & Entertainment | 3 Comments »
For most of my 39 years, I have had long hair. Straight, fine, shiny hair with the color changing over the years. Strawberry blonde, dark auburn, bright red, bangs or no bangs, people define me by my hair. I don’t know how many times I have heard, “I knew it was you because of your hair.” When your hair becomes part of your identity, you become reluctant to change it.
However, as many women can attest, in times of crises, we like to change our hair. Radically. During the summer of 1996, my sister Adrienne and I decided to cut our hair off. She opted for a spiky Winona Ryder look; I chose Josie Bissett’s style—all bangs in the front and super short in the back. Adrienne’s friends at school teased her and said she looked like a boy. My friends didn’t say anything at all. Yeah, it wasn’t our best hair decision. Neither one of us cut our hair that short ever again.
When my hair grew out, I didn’t vary it for almost a decade. Occasionally I would add a few layers, but then I would freak out and want my hair all one length again. I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror if my hair didn’t fall four inches past my collarbone. I only bothered to get a trim when I felt the ends hit my bra strap. I was bored with my hair but too scared to do anything about it. I took a baby step by bringing back my bangs in December 2007. When people commented on how much younger I looked, I thought I would keep my bangs forever.
My hairdresser was supportive and realistic about what would look best on me. When I tried to talk her into a punk-style cut, she replied, “I don’t think you’re ready for that radical of a change.” I finally agreed to an angular cut with the longest layer hitting my chin and the shortest layer hitting the nape of my neck. My bangs were longer so she blended them into the cut. When she was done, I expected to burst into tears. Instead, I grinned. I had chopped off my locks and survived. As an added bonus, my hair is now slightly wavy when it’s shorter and cut into layers. For a girl who grew up with stick-straight hair, it was as if a miracle had occurred. Thank you hormones.
Since that first chop, I’ve had many styles. My bangs no longer exist. I tried a body wave to enhance the natural curl. I played around with a bob. I invested in hot rollers. This week, I’m ditching the bob, adding layers, and telling my hairdresser to go for it. The best part is that I’m not scared anymore. My hair no longer defines me.
