For years, she’s been in her friends’ shadow. But Tammy Cousins, 30, says being the ‘plain one’ is liberating...
Everyone has that one friend, don’t they? That one crazy-beautiful friend, who even strangers fawn over. A friend who, when you walk into a party together, turns every head, commanding the entire room’s attention. The friend you totally adore but, when you’re together, you can’t help feeling like you’re living in their shadow. If you’re wondering, I am definitely not that shining, head-turning friend. I’m lots of things: funny, clever, silly and, most of all, happy – but, while some might think I’m attractive, I’m not beautiful.
There are so many expectations placed on women to be beautiful. We fixate on looks – particularly with girls – to a ridiculous extreme. We take a thousand selfies to get the right one and social media is making this obsession worse. And we start young! When I was growing up in Staffordshire, with my long, white- blonde hair and green eyes, I was used to adults fussing over my looks – telling me I was a ‘pretty little thing’. We love telling young girls they’re pretty, and we love ignoring them when they get older and plainer. I can’t pinpoint when the ordinary took over my face, but just after my 13th birthday, I realised no one seemed interested in my looks any more. I noticed, but I don’t remember minding. Life seemed exciting – I was making new friends and my big sister was having a baby. It didn’t occur to me that my looks would matter.
At secondary school, I watched friends discover make-up, short skirts and smoking, and told myself I wasn’t interested. I was vaguely conscious that I wasn’t as obviously attractive as other girls, but I didn’t mind. I was studious and shy, with greasy hair and chubby cheeks. Looking back, I think I was adorable, but I didn’t see it that way then. And with the arrival of puberty, came a horrible sense of self- awareness. I started staring at the pretty girls – girls like Suzy*– mesmerised. Suzy was already closing in on 6ft, even at 14, and she dazzled everyone from across the playground with her long hair and undercut. I wanted to be her and I watched in disbelief as the boys hung off her every word.
It was that same year when I had my first crush, Daniel. He had blonde curtains and big blue eyes that I wrote cringingly about in my diary. I thought about him constantly but never dared speak to him. He was too busy kissing girls like Suzy to know I was alive. I was starting to realise what power beauty had over people – and also that I would never have that power.
If I thought becoming an adult would change anything, I was laughably wrong. At 21, I started working in my local pub. I was behind the bar with seven beautiful women, including my stunning friends Taylor* and Steph*. I was attractive in my own way, but with their enormous eyes and toothy smiles, they only had to pour a pint and giggle and they’d be handed a £10 tip. Taylor could turn up half an hour late for her shift, spend half an hour in the bathroom fixing her make-up, and the manager still hung off her every word. That was not the case for me.
In many ways I was very content, my life was full of friends and family, I enjoyed my work, but watching Steph and Taylor count their tips while I emptied the slops bucket – that was tough. I’d compare myself to them and tell myself I just wasn’t pretty enough to earn a tip. I knew it wasn’t their fault – as well as being gorgeous, they were also lovely, sweet women – but they just had no idea how easy they had it. I tried making more of an effort, wearing make-up for a couple of weeks, fixing my hair like the other girls. But no matter what I did, I always faded into the background. No extra tips or attention and, much worse, I felt like I was pretending to be someone else. I went back to being me and accepted that my gorgeous friends and colleagues were having a totally different life experience to me.
And then something happened that flipped everything on its head. The manager left and the owner needed a replacement. All of us who worked behind the bar went for the job but, three months later, I was the one made manager. When the other girls were told to stay ‘front of house’ where they ‘belonged’, I realised they were dealing with just as much prejudice as the rest of us. People assumed my friends were dumb because they looked good and cared about make-up, and when I talked to Taylor, she told me this happened to her constantly. She was talked down to and struggled to make female friends – something I’ve never had an issue with. She told me the men she dated often treated her like a moron, or wanted to parade her around like a trophy. And the street harassment she was subjected to was disgusting. I felt... sorry for her.
That’s when I stopped worrying and started embracing the way I look. If there was something about my personality I didn’t like, I’d be upset about that, but I’ve realised my looks are just my looks and I’m really very lucky. I still know I’m not beautiful when I look in the mirror, but I’m healthy, happy, and I really like what I see. I like my friendly green eyes and my thick, shiny hair. I don’t even mind my imperfections: my little piggy nose and the scar I’ve had on it since I was three. I’ve even gained a few pounds in recent years and I’m in no hurry to lose them. My partner Steve loves the way I look, too. We met four years ago and, to begin with, yes, I admit that the insecure 13-year-old me made a reappearance. I knew his ex- girlfriends were beautiful and comparing myself to them made me feel awful. But I worked through it and now when Steve tells me I’m beautiful, I believe him.
Ultimately, I know good looks can be an advantage, but so can being plain! I think I’ve climbed the career ladder at a faster rate, I’ve made friends more easily and, now I’m 30, I’m not devastated to see those signs of age appear. Some of my beautiful friends are struggling to cope with every laughter line and pound gained, spending a fortune topping up their tan, and doing their hair and make-up. I can just get on with having fun. When I’m old, I know I won’t hear about how stunning I was when I was younger, but hopefully I’ll hear about how funny and clever I was, and – fingers crossed – still am.