Once I took her to the Santa Monica Pier. They don’t know that beauty is work, that it’s hard. I mean, he appreciates it when he sees it, but he doesn’t connect things. Sam wants to cut her hair because it gets so tangled and she sheds all over the place, but it’s such pretty hair, so thick-a man can’t appreciate that. They brought her to me and all I could think about was how ugly she looked, like a blowfish, with these tiny wriggling limbs-and I remember thinking, Please don’t let her stay ugly. What does an eight-year-old have to say to God that she can’t say to her mother? I remember when she was born. At first I told myself, all right, she’s being quiet, she’s writing, for Pete’s sake, who cares what about? But it made me nervous. Funny, right? Every day after school she goes upstairs and lies down under her bed-yes, under it, with a flashlight-and writes these letters.
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