The little wicked stepmother in me

It was the graduation ceremony for my daughter's class before she moved on to grammar school. I was sitting next to my ex-husband in the dark auditorium and our girl was acting on stage. Her role was that of a band's PR manager, for which she wore a blazer, heels and lipstick. And no longer looked like the girl she used to be. Or did she? Since she too has been paying homage to the holy trinity of hair, nails and make-up, the line between child and young adult has become increasingly blurred, and not just for outsiders. On that final evening, I could no longer hide the fact that she was no longer just my girl, but also a young lady.
«Isn't she beautiful?» my ex-husband whispered to me. «A beautiful young woman.» I nodded and shivered a little. A young woman? Is that really what you are at fourteen? If only that goes well!
I know that there are mothers who feel threatened by their own daughters' youth. And you can't blame them. When the children are still small, you enjoy how quickly they grow, change, give shape and form to time. But today? I never feel older than when I stand next to my daughter in front of the bathroom mirror. Then I think of sultanas shrivelled in the sun and fading rose bushes. While she shines more and more every day.

The wicked little stepmother who wants to get her hands on Snow White. Bang, I asked myself whether there was one of those slumbering somewhere inside me.

A few years ago, a slightly older friend once complained to me about her own daughter. She told me that she had worked hard all her life to make her daughter a happy, self-confident person. But now she herself was divorced and the menopause was just around the corner, while her daughter had everything with her sex appeal: Youth, future and the looks of every man. «Aha, the archetype,» I thought. The evil little stepmother who wants to get her hands on Snow White. Bang, I wondered if there was one of those lurking somewhere inside me.
The truth is: everyone wants beauty, and those who possess it have power. And at the same time, beauty is powerless because it is so fleeting. Personally, the concept has always given me the impression of a rather volatile quantity. As a 16-year-old, I vacillated between the megalomania of a young woman discovering the power of her sexuality and the despair of not being beautiful enough, of never being able to be enough. I was cured of this illness by a friend to whom I raved one day about Helene, who was considered the most beautiful woman in the village. He must have recognised my secret envy because he said: «Yes, she's beautiful, but she's also stupid. And one day she'll just be stupid.» I learnt that you can't build on beauty. But you can work with it.
When it comes to beauty, time may not be a particularly good friend. When it comes to experience, however, it is, and that outweighs a lot. So when I saw my daughter standing on stage and heard my husband whispering about her beauty, I replied. «Yes, beautiful. And smart enough not to rely on it too much.» And then I bathed in the envious joy of seeing her.

Michèle Binswanger
A graduate in philosophy, she is a journalist and author. She writes on social issues, is the mother of two children and lives in Basel.