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Fill your face, plump those lines, do whatever

Growing up my model for femininity was a stunning mother who stuck her head under the kitchen sink to wash it, sometimes with dishwashing liquid, walked around with nary a touch of any makeup, who dressed for parties or important client meeting, she was an architect, like a rock star. 

Me with a shovel in my mouth. Beautiful woman with wicker basket is mom.

And so I grew up, born in 1957 completely confused by the images around me, Raquel Welch (big boobs), Twiggy (don't eat), Julie Christie (brilliant and gorgeous), the Bond girls (wear a bikini and carry a dagger in your teeth). I always wanted to be pretty, nay, beautiful and every time I achieved that goal, almost without exception, I was hurt, sometimes in a small way, attacked by jealous girls at a country club, in a major way, raped, in a false way, first marriage, suicidally miserable yet a beautiful bride. Beauty came with starvation, such unhappiness and violence, being the pretty one made men at work behave in an awful …

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