When I was a child, my hair was both more beautiful and passionate than I was. Picture it, if you will, through the lens of the 1980s: A light ash blonde, fine and curly and backlit. Accented with colored barrettes, combed into soft waves, it cascaded about me like an intricately-woven halo. Growing up, it was a constant topic of conversation: this angelic weave that framed my pale cheeks with a gentle glow.

My hair was commonly acknowledged to be my strongest feature, and if you look at a picture of me in those days, it's easy to see why. For, perched amid this gorgeous waft of curls, clutching desperately at the camera, is one of the ugliest faces you will ever have the displeasure to see. A pile of jumbled features, frozen into an expression of absolute terror. The lips, too thin and red, stretch in a grimace over raggedy teeth (so crowded in that infantile jaw that some of them grew in sideways). The nose is short and wide, nostrils flared. Eyebrows, invisible. Ears like doorhandles. And the eyes! My poor childish eyes alone are enough to frighten away all but the most stalwart viewer. Large and round and blue, they seem to recede from the camera even as they hold it fast in their gaze. They are couched in a nest of fine wrinkles and bags, signs of too many nights spent awake. Their terror of the photographer is obvious, and strong enough to give the distinct impression that I am not all there, that I might be better off in one of those nice homes for wacky children, that, lacking proper supervision, I might very well end up on a murderous rampage a la Children of the Corn...

Not surprisingly, I think not even my mother found me beautiful in those days. I do not blame her one bit.