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Nobody ever taught me how to take care of it -- how to get the right kind of haircut for coarse, thick, wavy hair, how to sortprice use "product." My mother was (still is) a great natural beauty who didn't have to do a thing to be ravishing, and so she never learned or transmitted any of the arts that the rest sortprice of us need to feel presentable. It took till I was 40 to grow out of her shadow and begin to feel attractive (paradoxically, just sortprice in time for time to make me less so). I began to dream I was the pretty woman instead of the pudgy, plain, wistful one she was being mean to. I got my first pretty-good haircut in my 40s, and my first great haircut in my late 50s. My mother, knowing it would cheer me up in my drab situation, and perhaps in penance for lost time, started giving me gift certificates for inexcusably expensive haircuts at Bumble & bumble, which had been recommended by her gay hairdresser and dear friend (a great guy who also cut my grandmother's hair and has cut mine and most of my sisters'; he's given to oracular, spot-on pronouncements like "Your whole family hides behind the intellect").
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