When I’m around thirteen, I come up with the idea of fluffing my bangs a bit. With my fingers, I push aside the thick hair that normally falls straight down like a helmet over my face, already cluttered with glasses.
Grandmother compliments my new look. Thirty years later, I still see it as proof that she could be kind to me—an anomaly in the picture painted by my mother.
What bliss!
1. It’s ten times prettier.
2. Grandmother approved of me: I’m so proud! I’ve finally figured out how to earn (a bit) of her esteem.
1. It’s ten times prettier.
2. Grandmother approved of me: I’m so proud! I’ve finally figured out how to earn (a bit) of her esteem.
My mother quickly squashes my little idea. According to her, my new style makes a bad impression—apparently a calamity to avoid at all costs.
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| A bad impression |
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