The Princess and the Spinny.

I call this piece, ‘Making sense of not being beautiful, when confronted with beauty all the time’. An occupational hazard when you live in Hollywood.

Yesterday I interviewed an actress who is currently the ‘hottest thing in town’.  She’s in a hit TV show, for which her acting has won awards, is about to be seen in one of those blockbuster comic book movies, and is currently the face of a recently launched campaign for a high fashion house.

She’s beautiful.

I am not beautiful.

I sat in her shadow yesterday, and for the few minutes I was allotted, I asked my carefully researched questions, as I soaked up her line-free, creamy skin, her full red lips, lithe body, thick luscious hair, perfect make-up and designer shoes.

And I thought to myself: There is no way that a woman who looks like she does will ever be on her own.

(Whether or not she is happy, or a nice person or deserves it are separate issues.)

But as I sat perched on a sofa in front of her, like a haggard Lois Lane with bad posture and no access to good hair products, I realised that beauty really is the golden ticket. But it’s a ticket you cannot win during your lifetime. You are born clutching it in your slippery foetal hands.

No matter how much I starve myself, I will never be that thin or ‘modelly’ looking. My features are plain, my body is average but with the right make up, I scrub up ok, and good diet, exercise and a bit of styling helps (thank you stylist friends who have saved me from many a disastrous visit to American Apparel).

This actress is a glamorous, sought-after, wealthy Hollywood star who fell out of bed into a pot of honey as angels whispered, ‘I love you’, into her perfect ears.

I left the interview and then immediately caught sight of my pasty carb face in the hotel mirror. A one star face in five star surroundings.

I smiled. How can you not?

I cannot compete – nor would I want to – with the way she looks, and the seemingly charmed life she is leading.  But my brain…my brain, well that’s another issue entirely. As far as I’m concerned, my brain is the Kate Moss of brains. It’s a supermodel. A catwalk star.

Hollywood may not be offering me the world but my brain sure helps me make sense of it. And so today, while I curse my parents’ genes under my breath, I am going to strut my stuff all over this keyboard til steam comes out of it.

Happily ever after? Probably not. But at least when you’re faced with your limitations you can work within them.

*stuffs more toast into carb face, types furiously*

The End.

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