"Maybe there's no hope left for my appearance to ever change. They say nothing lasts forever. But me? I'm living proof to the contrary. Forever… like this. Forever ugly."
—
Just a while ago, at a fast food restaurant… "What's that? Not only is she ugly, but her outfit is so tacky! Imagine—her skin is already dark, and she's wearing an orange floral dress. My God! She looks like a black flower vase."
I overheard this from a woman sitting ahead of me, her back turned, holding a pressed powder mirror. From the angle she held it, I caught a fleeting glimpse of myself reflected in the glass while I ate. The woman sitting across from her stole a quick, secret glance at me, then quietly smiled before returning her gaze to the one who had spoken.
Even though they didn't say it directly to me, I knew without a doubt that I was the target.
I closed my eyes for a moment and exhaled. This is me. Who else could it be?
I'm the woman who talks to her reflection every morning, silently hoping something might change. I shower. I shampoo. Lotion. Soap. Tried every cream, potion, and trick imaginable—cheap or pricey, herbal or chemical.
Nothing works.
Still the same.
It feels like my face carries a permanent label: ugly by DNA. No hope of changing it.
Even when people say, "Nothing lasts forever," I'm the exception. Because for my appearance? There really is. Forever ugly.
Sorry. I forgot to introduce myself.
My name is Dianne Annilou Hernandez.
Sounds like a celebrity name, right? But if you saw me in person, you'd probably think fate, genetics, and the universe teamed up to punch my face at the same time. People often mistake me for ugly, outdated, or even like a maid.
And honestly? That's fine.
At least there's one beautiful thing about me—my name. You can call me Dianne. Thirty-ish. Single. Finance Executive in a reputable company. Yes, I may not be pretty, but God gave me a sharp mind, a kind heart, and a sense of responsibility. He just deducted a little from my face.
And I know what you're thinking: "Common job. Lots of people are Finance Executives. Nothing special."
But for me? It's a big deal. Especially growing up in poverty, feeling like not just my face, but my entire world was ugly.
—
Flashback — A Memory of the Past
If you think I'm being dramatic, let me take you back.
When I was in elementary school, we had no house. None.
A typhoon—whose name I don't even remember—destroyed our nipa hut. The one tied to a coconut tree. Literally tied.
It was like renting shelter with a single piece of rope.
Thankfully, we were evacuated before the storm. Everyone was safe. But when we returned… nothing remained. Even our cat, Pogi, never came back.
Out of pity, my grandmother sold my parents an old hut. One thousand pesos. Cheap? Nope. What she sold… was a pig house.
Yep. A. Pig. House.
No walls. No windows. A roof full of holes. And the floor… indescribable. My parents patched sacks over gaps to make a ceiling, anything for walls. That became our home. The smell lodged permanently in my memory.
Passing by my grandparents' house daily, I had to pretend everything was normal. My mother taught me respect. I'd walk up to my grandmother. Smile.
"Lo—"
SLAP!
Her hand smacked mine away.
"Go home."
No hello. No "Have you eaten?" No "How was school?" Just a shove.
In that moment, something inside me cracked. Was I hurt because she slapped my hand? Or because she seemed more willing to hold a pig than her granddaughter?
That was the first time I asked myself: Is there something wrong with my face?
—
Weight of the Past
Even now, I carry everything—the pig house, the typhoon, the grandmother's slap, the insults, the poverty, the sleepless nights in college, the jobs I cried over.
I'm the eldest. I paid for my siblings' schooling. I gave capital for my parents' bakery.
No regrets.
And I'm proud to help my family.
Even with a degree in Business Management, a stable job, and supporting my family, a part of me is still buried in that old pig house. The shame. The smell. The slap. The stares.
Even with a better life now, a part of me refuses to let go of that belief: for being me, for being ugly!
My Friends — The Goddesses
I have three best friends who seem like they descended straight from Olympus.
Athena Morillo — Actress-level beauty, glowing, fair, smooth skin, sxy. Owner of "Fragrance Home," a flower shop. Whenever we walk together, someone always asks: "Miss, are you a celebrity?"
Dansel Fabian — Happy-go-lucky, adventurous, porcelain skin, like walking sunshine. Co-owner of a DeliShop with her cousin.
Amytheist "Amy" Guiler — Soft, sweet features, classy, quiet but elegant. Co-owner of the DeliShop.
And then… there's me. Short, dark-skinned, tired-looking. Looks like a panicked substitute teacher. The odd one out.
But they love me anyway. And I love them. Even though they're rich, they never treated me differently. Never.
Friday Afternoon
I was buried in paperwork, feeling like I was applying for a visa to another planet, when my phone rang.
"Dianne, sis?" Dansel. "Girl! Did you forget? We're leaving tomorrow!" "Yeah, I know. Just drowning in paperwork." "When did your paperwork ever decrease? Why don't you resign?" "Are you crazy? This is the only job that pays well. Hello? Breadwinner?"
I laughed. Rich friends, yes. But they never made me feel less. That's why I love them.
"Tomorrow, I'll fetch you before eight. Be ready. You know how our friends hate waiting." "For someone who says that, you're even more maarte than them." "Idiot!"
If she were in front of me, she would have pulled my hair. That's how we love—through teasing.
—
Tomorrow — Friendship Date
Every Saturday, a tradition: Friendship Date. No work. No meetings. No stress.
Just us.
And tomorrow… YLda's Mount Peak View. New scenery. New view. New place.
But me? Still the same. No matter how many mountains we climb tomorrow… I'll still carry one "forever" I don't know how to let go of:
Forever ugly.