Recently, I opened my Facebook page to find a picture one gentleman had posted of Ivanka Trump. It showed her as a teenager, her hair a dark brown, and her nose longer than seen in recent photographs. He was suggesting her current face wasn’t her natural one. The jibe saddened me.
I have as many points of dissatisfaction with my body as there are stars in the night sky. Discontent with one’s self image seems to be a feminine curse. I recall, as a kid, finding my mother banging one hip against a bedroom wall, her face as solemn as a witness to a public hanging