According to my mother my nose was too big, my breasts were too small and my hair was too wild. In fact, there wasn’t much about me that she thought didn’t need fixing. I used to have dreams when I was a little girl that I’d wake up and my hair would be straight. I was sure God punished me by giving me curly, frizzy hair.
I also use to think what would my life be like if my parents were accidentally killed. I would be free, free from their critism, free from their control, free from their punishment. What a horrible thought? How could a child think like that? It was only once but that was enough and I knew it was wrong.
The pressures of growing up in an upwardly mobile neighborhood in the 60s and 70s and my mom’s strong conviction to control me and make me her “perfect” daughter were not a happy combo. I was born an artist, an individual thinker and was more interested in making macramé belts, embroidering on work shirts and hanging out at the free school. Not exactly a match for my mom’s desires for me.
My junior high school yearbook and high school yearbook were before and after pictures for nose jobs.