Because I’m a mix of vain and humble, flawed
and flawless, I both love and hate social media.
I’m not talking about Facebook. Nobody is onFacebook except your aunty and all of her aunty
friends. The real vanity orgy is on Instagram. When
I post a photo of myself on Instagram or say something
clever that gets tonnes of hearts and LOLs, I feel
like a queen with a nation of subjects supporting
me. Until they don’t.
That happened recently, and it shook me a bit. InFebruary I went to the NAACP Image Awards, a great
big celebration of all the dope and amazing things
people of colour are doing in this world—plus, it’s held
during Black History Month. The second I found out
I was going, I knew I wanted to wear an African-print
gown because there’s literally no more opportune time
to wear a gorgeous African-print gown than during
Black History Month at the Image Awards.
I was beyond excited when my stylist, Marcy[Guevara-Prete], found a yellow and blue peacock-
feather-print skirt and top with a keyhole neckline. It
came from an Etsy store called Öfuurë that specialises
in African-inspired looks. As soon as I put the outfit on
and saw myself in the mirror, I knew it was my soulmate.
(Yes, I called an outfit my soulmate. I’m single and over
- If I want to settle down and live my life with an
article of clothing, I can! Just be glad it’s not 75 cats.)
I put 100 per cent of my confidence into this gorgeous
outfit. I wore it with gold hoop earrings and a big curly
wig teased to look like an Afro.
When I got to the awards show and stepped ontothe red carpet, you couldn’t tell me sh**! I felt gorgeous,
and in that moment there was no convincing me
otherwise. My pride and my entire heritage rested
comfortably on my head as an invisible crown of
straight-up righteousness. I comfortably, truly had
zero f***s to give.
But toward the end of the night, I made the tacticalerror of checking my phone while sitting in a car on the
way to an after-afterparty. The internet loved my
dress. But then someone said they hated my hair. Oh.
I couldn’t just stop scrolling. Another person hated
my hair. Then another. And a few more. Uh-oh. A lot!
I don’t usually give a f***! What’s happening to me?
Where did all these f***s come from? Who let all of
them in? Suddenly I’m drowning in them! My invisible
righteous crown tumbled down and fell to the floormat
of that hire car.I decided to skip the after-afterparty and went
straight home. The moment I got through the front
door of my house, I unfastened my skirt and stepped
out of it, leaving it to be dealt with the next morning.
I walked into my bathroom, bottomless, and wiped my
make-up off while listening to “This American Life”.
My night was over.
It was not my finest hour. But with some sleep came
some perspective. It was an Afro, you tasteless fools—
it completed the look! I felt dope in it. And even
though a moment of weakness made me go home,
the comments hadn’t ruined my night. I ruined my
night. Those people who hated my hair are invisible.
They don’t really exist in my world. I exist. And I alone
let them shape my reality.
In the days that followed, whenever I saw a picture
of myself on the red carpet, I smiled. I felt beautiful
and strong all over again. I’m glad I posted the photo.
Ultimately, I like looking and feeling pretty for myself
even more than I like pretending to be a queen with
subjects. Negative comments don’t have to haunt me.
When it comes to how I look, my opinion is the only
one that counts.
Sidibe’s first book of essays, This Is Just My Face:
Try Not To Stare, is available nowMY VANITY by GABOUREY SIDIBE
When I post a photo of myself
on Instagram that gets tonnes of
hearts, I feel like a queen with a
nation of subjects supporting me”
Beauty
JUNE 2017 In STYLE 125