My sister has always had a knack for knowing just the right thing to say to get me going. I’ll never forget the time I was about to embark on a trans-Atlantic flight to Germany with a group of strangers who were also highly judgmental high schoolers when she commented “oh, so you decided not to do your hair today?” For a 15-year-old girl, this kind of comment is devastating. I spent the remaining time before departure panicking in the airport bathroom, trying to sculpt my hair into something other people wouldn’t judge me for.
Ditto the time I came to the breakfast and my sister commented “is that a pimple?” It was, I was trying desperately to hide it, and I didn’t think I could go on to school that day.
Now, as I reach and age where I have to be more worried about lines around my eyes than face blemishes, I have to smile every time I look at myself in the mirror and reach for the concealer. If there’s such a thing as post-traumatic zit disorder, I think my sister gave it to me.
