Member-only story
To All The Botticelli Beauties
A micro-memoir
My mother is Amazonian.
When she walks into a room she exudes intimidating grace and presence. Growing up, I saw an exquisite, powerful woman in shoulder-padded suits and sexy black heels.
She saw something different in the mirror.
Her nose was too long, her hips too big, her breasts too small:
“All nipple and nothing else,” she joked.
She blew her locks out straight. Brushing and lacquering layers of spray: her hair was a lion’s mane and she held the whip. Hairdressers couldn’t get it right.
I begged her once, but I’ve never seen it natural.
“Curls aren’t professional” she said, while pulling at my ringlets. She’d never let me straighten mine, even when I was a professional.
She powdered and painted; she bought all the products: she worried we’d never be beauties.
I take after my mother, but when I saw a portrait of Venus — pear-shaped curves, untamed waves — I knew what we were.
I see a Botticelli in the mirror and hang it on the wall of my heart.
