My grandmother, a belle of the 1920s, bound her generous bosom so she could mimic the waiflike profile so much en vogue at that time. Eventually the style moved on. I don’t know if she told my adorable, ringlet-headed, saucer-eyed mother that she was a beautiful child. I do know she told her she was too skinny as a young girl and then later made it known that it was a shame her husband had the better legs of the two of them. My mother has always told me I was lovely, but I can faithfully mimic her grimace as she patted her neck in the mirror while I watched her put on her makeup. She was probably about my age now when she started that squinty neck-pat, along with the fretful conversations about the bags under her eyes.
