hen I was about seven or so – still barely aware of having an appearance – a friend brought to school a fashion magazine she had stolen from her mother and, pointing to the models, patiently explained that this was the way to look. Later that day, alone in the bathroom, I scrutinised myself. My face was okay, I decided; as soon as the freckles faded away, I could even give this modeling thing a shot. I remain endeared by the thought of that moon-faced, pot-bellied kid giving herself the once-over and concluding that the
