You know, have one green and one blue eye means something very weird in Voodoo folklore, but I do, too. That’s it for eyes, last time I Iooked. But I was blessed with one ear - the left one works, the other is purely for decoration. As a child, this was hard for my family to believe, as I was surrounded by punsters and picked up the habit early. But my good ear has provided me with far more quiet nights than I could hope for, otherwise. Sure, there are downsides; no sense of direction, so it’s not that fun to ride shot-gun with me on road trips. I once attended a meditation retreat where hundreds of devotees blind-folded themselves and tried to filter out all negative sound from their left sides - in hopes of receiving divine intonations from the right. (Apparently, I’ve been beyond hope since birth.) They tried to achieve this by droning and chanting, loudly all night long. I trundled off to my tent and slept like an angel. Quietude is my rebate for Vodoo-eyes.

As a teenager I was 5’9”, had pale skin, blue eyes and straight, red hair. This was during the era that only tan skin was considered beautiful (the 70’s and 80’s). I felt like a giant freak towering over everyone. At the time I wished I was petite and had brown eyes and curly, brown hair. Even my dad, of whom I’m the spitting image, never really warmed to me and concentrated his attentions on my petite, blond, younger sister. Because society has a broader idea of what’s beautiful today, I so wish I could have benefited from it when my sense of self was taking hold as I might have valued myself more. Now that, as my sister says, my hair’s “losing its intensity,” I miss my once vibrant locks. I know it’s time to think about dyeing my hair but I hate the idea of all that upkeep. Who would’ve thought I would miss the characteristics that plagued me during my childhood? Oh, and I’ve come to appreciate my height, as well. It comes in handy when your significant other is 6’6”!

Very wild, red, curly hair, freckles and grey/blue eyes with very fair eye lashes. When I was growing up in England in the 50s nobody appreciated that look and I never felt pretty. My Dad used to encourage me to be outgoing and taught me I was equal to anyone. But neither of my parents ever told me I was attractive. I was the only ginger head in a class of 45 and got called bird’s nest, carrot top etc. I loathed it all. In my early 20s I suddenly became aware that I wasn’t so bad looking after all. The people I worked with were very kind and I got involved in politics and I had a couple of sweet boyfriends. It all gave me a boost, shallow though that may seem. As the years went by I realised looks aren’t important, no matter what we are taught by the media etc. Now I’m in my mid 50s I realise I was beautiful but age is taking its toll. I feel beautiful. I think every living thing in the Universe is lovely. Somehow it seems that many types of beauty or looks are ‘acceptable’ these days. On the other hand the dangerous dieting, the search for the perfect face and body syndromes etc are very sad.

Being from a mother who was very short and stout, I am short and slightly stout. And age has made stout a little more pronounced. I don’t like that.

I always hated my big, size 8.5 feet, thought they were gigantic compared to my sister’s and girlfriend’s size 6. Then I met hubby and shortly thereafter, we were sitting next to each other with bare feet and he said to me, I love your dainty feet. His are size 13! How shocked I was to hear that! Since then I look at my tiny feet with love. It’s all relative! :)

I was always the tall girl in the group and I always had small, cute friends, even through college. And for the longest time, those were the girls that the boys liked. Small and cute is a description that has never applied to me, even in infancy! I’m tall and dark and I finally came to appreciate my dramatic looks in my late 20’s and learned to value looking different. I’ll never forget a “friend’s” comment in college about my hand’s - she said they looked like a man’s hands. I actually liked my hands and fingers! I came to realize that she was a miserable person in many ways but I never forgot her comment. And I’ve had many nice comments since about my hands but it’s funny how we never forget the stinging remarks. Unfortunately, tall and dark also comes with hairy - I’ll never accept that one.

Naturally curly hair. I ironed it on the ironing board, begged my mother to comb straightening solution through it, and rolled it on orange juice cans. In my late 20’s, I went to a new hairdresser who changed my life. When he said, “honey, you have no idea how gorgeous this stuff is, and if you only knew how much $ people pay me to try and look like this, you’d change your mind”! Well, he was right and I did. Love the curls. My sister is my exact opposite, and has board straight hair. She always wanted mine, and I wanted hers.