“I had gotten a neat rust colored sweater for Christmas, embroidered at the neckline and wrists with tiny yellow daisies. It went really well with my thin-ribbed corduroy jeans. After I got dressed I got my boar’s hair brush and brushed my hair until it shone, clinging to my fingers and crackling with static electricity. I rummaged in my top bureau drawer for the small gold hoops for my ears. I didn’t want to overdo it, but a little jewelry never hurt. As I was applying my lip gloss I leaned for...ward and surveyed myself critically in the mirror. What did Heath see that he liked? I looked ordinary enough to myself, but I’d been looking at myself all my life. I tried to be objective, peering at the girl who stared back at me from the glass. Pretty? No, pretty was Barbara. Attractive? No, that was for older ladies, like “handsome” or “stylish.” My mother was attractive. What then? Striking? Maybe. My coloring was vivid, hard to miss, and my slimness and height drew the eye. I could never get lost in a crowd, people always spotted me first, which I had found to be a distinct disadvantage on a number of occasions.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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