Struggling to be perfect is one of the most underrated diseases of my generation. Perfect body, perfect hair, perfect clothes, perfect smile, perfect family, perfect friends, perfect lovers, perfect jobs, perfect social media accounts, perfect life. It’s tiring to write this, even more so to live it. The sad part is we’ve all lived it at least once.

The question we should ask ourselves is what lies behind this mask of perfection? What are we so afraid of that we need this shield? At the end of the day, we are all perfect just as we are. At the end of the day, we are just normal people with ups and downs, with qualities and faults, trying to impress other normal people by being perfect. And those normal people do the same. It’s like a meeting of masks and shields and fears and egos. Do we really want that?

When I first saw Little Miss Sunshine I was around fourteen years old. At a very emotionally vulnerable age, I thought that perfection means love. In my universe, only perfect people deserved love. I was not perfect, so I didn’t deserve it. Pretty clear, right? Then I saw this movie and my world kinda shook, the shattering of my faulty belief had begun.

It all starts very American. An extended family of a tired mother, a stressed step-father, an adorable daughter, an emo step-son, a hippie grandpa and a suicidal uncle begin their one-van journey to a beauty pageant where sweet eight year old Olive wants to compete. She’s anything but your classical spoiled pageant-going pre-pubescent American girl. She’s goofy, she’s adorable, she’s beautiful, she’s natural, she’s sweet. Not what beauty pageants would describe as the ideal candidate.

A big part of the movie we only get to see the masks of the characters. The father trying to start a new business and doing anything to impress his possible partners. The step-son using self-imposed silence as an anarchy method, avoiding the world. The little girl, asking if she will get fat from the ice cream served at the diner. The uncle, upset that he’s still alive, furious at the world, using sarcasm to mask his pain. The mother, trying to make everything perfect and struggling to cover up all her family’s so called imperfections.

The only one who doesn’t give a fuck is the grandpa. Another testimony that growing old, if done properly, is a godsend. He says what he thinks, he eats what he wants. He’s natural and he can’t be bothered. His hippie attitude and his outspokenness bothers all the other characters. Maybe they are envious of his freedom. Maybe they are ready to take their masks off and to leave their shields behind.

After a tiresome journey, filled with teenage outbursts, annoying drivers, husband-wife arguing, family bickering, unwanted encounters and unexpected departures, they finally arrive at the pageant. You can feel the plastic coming out of the screen. All the make up, all the clothes, all the performances, all the pressure on seven year olds to walk, talk and act appropriate is like a plastic bag on your head, taking your breath away slowly and surely.

And when you think you can’t last any longer, when the plastic takes over your life almost completely and breathing becomes painful, then the movie cuts the bag with a pair of scissors and you can taste the air again. The unleashed characters, free from the weight of their fears, are perfect just as they are. Wild, natural, free, goofy and indifferent to other people’s opinion. Does it remind us of anyone? Of course, the grandfather.

The ending can bring tears to your eyes. Tears of joy? Tears of laughing too hard? Tears of relief? Well, a combination of all those mentioned above. Because in those moments you see what life would look like if we’d let go of our mask. What it would look like if we’d be free. What it would look like if we’d be ourselves. And it looks pretty fucking great!