A young black woman who grew up convinced she was ugly because she was too dark turned to sexy fashions and make-up to find her pretty side. But the short skirts, tight pants and lipstick, for all the attention they attracted, made her feel profoundly uncomfortable. Now she has taken to a different fashion approach and discovered the beautiful face in the mirror is her own. Commentator Ladie Terry writes for YO! (Youth Outlook) and is an editorial assistant for Pacific News Service.

SAN FRANCISCO -- When I was younger my mom would always say to me, "You're pretty ugly, huh?"

"I'm pretty," I'd respond, thinking I was supposed to pick one of the two adjectives. She thought it was cute how I didn't understand what she was saying.

In elementary school, the girls I grew up with seemed prettier than me, and the popular guys liked them. When we had to hold hands on a field trip, I always wanted to hold hands with one of the guys I had a crush on, but the caramel complexioned girls' hands would get held instead. The guys I liked never paid any attention to me, and they were disappointed when we had to work together on school projects, even though I was happy.

Then I found the solution to enhance my looks. After my mom would leave for work, I would go into her room and put her make-up on my face, then roll my long skirt up into a mini-skirt. I just knew this would make me look better, but pretty soon a teacher noticed I was being a little fast and told my mother. When she finished punishing me, I never put foundation on my face again.

One time in middle school, a guy double-dared this other guy to kiss me on the cheek. He was actually scared, and had to be forced to do it. After that, I fell into a deep depression. I started looking in the mirror to figure out what was wrong with me. Why are people scared of me? Why do they cut off the lights to see if they can see my eyes or teeth? Why am I the black tar baby of the school? My eyes would become bloody red and my head would ache from crying and asking why. Then I would remember my mother telling me, "If you don't cut it out, I'll knock the black off your face!" I'd try to pull off the darkest parts of my skin, but I never had any luck.

By the time I got to high school my body had changed, and suddenly all the guys were smiling at me. I would hear one say "She got ass!" or "Hey, chocolate. What are you doing with all that junk in the trunk?" I went home asking myself, "What junk in the trunk?" But I knew that when I wore tight clothing, I always got noticed, and that made my self-esteem go up an inch. I liked designing my hair and lips, and wearing less clothing. I felt cool to symbolize myself in sexiness. As long as the guys liked me, I was happy.

After I graduated from high school, life became overwhelming for me. I was on my own, broke, and depressed. As soon as I started earning some money, I went shopping, and made sure to buy sexy clothes. The guys came back around, but I started noticing I was attracting the wrong kind: the kind who would take me to a fast food place or the movies in the hopes that they could eventually have sex with me.

I started to feel uncomfortable in my short skirts that I was constantly pulling down. I was tired of worrying if my chest was sticking out, and being unable to bend over because my pants were too tight. And I was very tired of the kind of men who were paying attention to me.

What am I doing wrong? I asked myself. Why am I not happy with myself? Why an I making men the God? Why am I being mistreated?

One day I went to a Muslim girls' class, and Sister Miriam said something that really hit home. She told me there are two types of jewelry in a jewelry store: the ones you can touch, and the ones you have to ask for. She said we women have to see ourselves in that sense. Later, at the mosque, the minister told us women that we don't need any make-up to enhance us, because we are by nature beautiful.

That did it. I bought longer blouses that didn't reveal my chest and looser, more comfortable pants and dresses, and I stopped wearing lipstick. Brothers started greeting me with nice words, words I didn't know they knew how to say. But I kept crying when I looked in the mirror. I had thought that lipstick was part of my face, and without it I was ugly. I cried because I wanted to learn how to love my real self.

As time went on, I would look in the mirror and smile. I would turn on my favorite music to get me in a happy mood. Then, oh, oh, who is that pretty girl? I could see myself. I didn't need a man to make me feel beautiful. I didn't need anyone but me.

My mom and my childhood schoolmates said their mean words so I could learn an important lesson: It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks. Now I've learned from the Muslims and myself that I don't have to be admired for revealing clothes or make-up to feel one hundred percent whole. I've learned to recognize the pretty face in the mirror as my own.