Where I come from, looking good was all that mattered. In Grosse Pointe, Michigan, in the 1950s, what you wore to church on Sunday was more important than how you behaved during the week. My mother never tired of telling me that girls like me needed to “do the most with what they had.” Looking back, I can see that I was a pretty child, but at the time I couldn’t see beyond my freckles and slight chubbiness.
Even as a kid, though, I suspected that who you were on the inside was more important than how you looked. Sure, I wanted to fit in and wore checked gingham skirts over layers of crinolines, but I never spent much time on my hair or make-up. I was more concerned about being a good girl and helping Mom. But I could never do enough to keep her happy. My failure was constantly reinforced by the voice in my head that I would later name “The Vile Witch Upstairs.” I thought this inner critic was all there was to me.
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