Dear Reader,
MY MOTHER IS INDISPUTABLY, GENETICALLY BEAUTIFUL. She has big, pool-like blue eyes; a curtain of dark, curly eyelashes; and a wide, contagious, Miss Congeniality smile. Each of these God-given traits is a laurel that Mom could have rested on for decades, but she never took them for granted. As a child, I would obediently follow her through department stores and hair salons, eye-level with the hemlines of the busy beauticians who fluttered around her, analyzing signs of aging, dehydration, or fatigue, and look up to see her face being massaged, moisturized, and painted. In 30 minutes flat, she’d go from tired mother-of-five to Park Avenue princess—just without the actual Park Avenue address.
My mother was devoted to these rare moments of self-preservation, despite the protests of my father,…
