Our beauty contests are stuck in the 1950s

I admit that the phrase ‘beauty pageant’ makes me itch. Young women (or men, come to that) parading about in swimming costumes or elaborately kitsch ‘evening gowns’ and then being marked on their appearance just doesn’t do it for me.

But live and let live, I say. If some young women are pleased that they might be pretty and they want to be awarded a sash and a cheap tiara on their head for it, then who’s stopping them?

So perhaps I should have switched channel the other day when I chanced upon the Miss Malta contest on Net. I did after a few minutes, but it was already too late – the knee jerk reaction had kicked in.

I got the bit where the final contestants were answering the crucial ‘decider’ questions in English, we were told, “because the winner would then go on to take part in the Miss World Beauty Pageant in London next November”.

Now, the talk was not about world peace and cuddly kittens – that would have been predictable and bearable.

No, this is what Malta’s very own Pippo Baudo, presenter Charles Saliba – who should by now come to terms with his need for reading specs – asked: “How can a woman make a man look complete and stunning?”

Then: “How is a woman important in today’s society?” And: “Fashion is surely something you follow, what else makes you interesting?”

I’m thinking of suing the bright sparks who came up with these questions: they made me throw a shoe at the television screen before I proceeded to slit my wrists. Is it possible that in 2011 there are still people whose parlance is still so teeth-grindingly sexist?

Never mind that some of the finalists were Pamela Anderson carbon copies with pencilled eyebrows and fake blonde, heavily can-sprayed hair.

Never mind that the grasp of English of some of them was very basic. And never mind that the answers given were not remotely inspiring (why did none of them look aghast at Mr Saliba and say: ‘You’re joking right?’).

I am sure that these girls were not pretty simpletons, too thick to think for themselves. And I am sure that some of them were even bright and clever and possibly still students. The last thing I want to do is to pass judgment on the women taking part. Far from it.

I am upset at the organisers: how dare they, in 2011, set up a show, with the underlying message being the objectification of women; the frivolity of women (we’re just fashion-mad and that’s it); or worse, the man-pleasing woman (‘How can a woman make a man look complete and stunning’ – please!).

No one in this day and age should be asking about the importance of women in society.

This has nothing to do with feminism or post-feminism or any variants thereof. Quite possibly, at this point you might be thinking that I’m a sad femmo throwback with dungarees and armpit hair. No (although I do own a pair of dungarees).

True, I don’t do cartwheels at the idea of a young girl being stared at, judged and picked apart while she stands there, anxious in her underwear (or her outerwear, for that matter).

But nor do I find it “empowering” and “character forming” as the programme presenter and the organisers kept telling us.

Speak to anyone who has ever taken part in a beauty pageant and they’ll tell you these contests are a bitch fest. On camera the girls always go on and on about the strong bonds between them and how supportive they are to each other.

But they forget the camera doesn’t lie: just look at the sour grimaces whenever the winner is announced. I don’t really consider this the right ambience for character formation.

Then again, in our all-must-have-prizes culture, beauty is skin deep. The general idea out there is that you can be the most charming, intelligent woman in the world – but if you’re plain as a pikestaff, you are to be ignored.

That’s the 21st century attitude for you. Which is why in the UK when these pageants take place, there’s always people protesting outside.

But here it seems that we have to go through the bra-burning era all over again. Maltese organisers really should do some catching up and make sure that such contests are not stuck in the apron-wearing ideologies of the 1950s.

After I wrote all this, a nagging thought came to mind. What if, in say, 10 years time, my daughter comes up to me and tells me she wants to take part in Miss Malta or some such?

I admit that I’ll do a Victorian and pass out and someone would have to get me the Epsom salts. And they’d better be strong.