I went to grade school and high school with a girl who was severely scarred by a fire as a baby. Her neck and chest and right arm looked as though they were partially melted and huge misshapen globs of flesh rippled like water over rocks in a brook all down her legs. The first time I saw her I was about six, and the sight of her frightened me terribly.
If, in an intimate moment, you would ask her about the fire, she would offer one of several explanations she had prepared. None had anything to do with any of the others. And if you asked her brother, you would get yet another tale. I was never able to determine which, if any of the tales were true, or to what degree. I have often wondered about the secrecy.
After going to school with her several years, though, most of us kids forgot all about the scars. Stopped seeing them. But I was with a deaf girlfriend walking in the neighborhood. We were 8 or 9 at the time. I saw Jeanne with the scars across the street and crossed over to greet her. Sherry, the deaf girl, was obviously terrified of Jeanne and refused to come over. The look of panic, fear and revulsion on her face was clear. I could say or do nothing to smooth it over. I felt worse for Jeanne in that moment than I ever have before or since.
Now I make sure I only hang out with beautiful people. People who are attractive are winners. People who aren’t are losers. I am a winner and only want winners around me. Pathetic ugly people should get off the planet. Image is everything.
Signing off. Jana Meehan. Pioneering new frontiers in superficiality.
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