A Lighter View
Childlike honesty
By K.E.H. Stagg

March 11, 2010

If you ever want to know if your clothes really make you look thin, if the anti-aging cream delivers as promised or if the new haircut is a success, ask a child. Children are remarkably free of any awareness that self-censoring might be a good idea, particularly when it comes to making comments about others’ appearances.

Sometimes their innocence is refreshing: “Oh, look! Those people are sniffing each other’s breath!” Other times, it’s downright embarassing: “How come you’re so fat?”

While children are wildly curious and the minute they spot anything out of the ordinary they have to provide audible commentary on their discovery, they’re also so accepting of just about anything—no matter how odd—that once their curiosity is satsified, that’s an end to it.

I have it on good authority that children will ask—very loudly—“What’s that stuff on your face?” And when told that it’s brown spots, they immediately want to know, “How come?” A succinct explanation that sun exposure = discoloration results in the observation, “Well, you should cover them up.” And being informed that they were covered up at the beginning of the day, but that make-up wears off by the end of the day, produces a dismissive, “Oh.”

Children won’t hesitate to let you know something about you strikes them as odd or that they think the clothes you’re wearing are ugly. They don’t intend their remarks to give deliberate offense; they simply comment on the world as they see it, and quite often at the very moment it occurs to them. They have no concept that stating, “He’s got snow in his hair!” when it’s a hundred degrees outside is publicly announcing the existence of a dandruff problem, which could be an embarassment to the sufferer. Ditto for their remarks to women with facial hair: “Did you know you have a beard?” I’m pretty sure any woman who’s ever heard this already had a sneaking suspicion that Ringling Brothers might be calling, but it never hurts to have a child confirm one’s status as a freak of nature.

Thanks to the frankness of children, I know that they find me “really short” and possessed of “big, fat garden legs.” I also have “funny hair” and own “the ugliest bathing suit in the world.” In these trenchant comments, I recognize faint echoes of the pointed remarks I once made at their age, and am comfortable with my funny hair and ugly bathing suit, although I definitely wish my legs were neither big nor fat.

Just be forewarned: If you’re not prepared to hear the entire truth, painful as it might be, don’t ask a child!