Did men ever look in the mirror, I wondered, and find themselves wanting in deeply fundamental ways?
When they opened a newspaper or watched a film, were they presented with nothing but exceptionally handsome young men,
and did this make them feel intimidated, inferior, because they were not as young, not as handsome?
Did they then read newspaper articles ridiculing those same handsome men if they gained weight or wore something unflattering?
These were, of course, rhetorical questions. I looked at myself again.
I was healthy and my body was strong. I had a brain that worked fine, and a voice, albeit an unmelodious one;
smoke inhalation all those years ago had damaged my vocal cords irreparably.
I had hair, ears, eyes and a mouth. I was a human woman, no more and no less.
Even the circus freak side of my face—my damaged half—was better than the alternative,
which would have meant death by fire. I didn’t burn to ashes.
I emerged from the flames like a little phoenix. I ran my fingers over the scar tissue, caressing the contours.
I didn’t burn, Mummy, I thought. I walked through the fire and I lived.
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