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Perfecting Kate

By Tamara Leigh

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I never asked to be made over. In fact, I was perfectly content with Katherine Mae Meadows just the way she was—twenty-nine years young (and holding), five foot seven (on tiptoe), 110 pounds (wrung out), and completely “au naturel” (in my line of work, who has time to fuss with hair and makeup?).
Yep, content. And the more I told myself that, the more I was convinced. Then one so-called friend commented on my shortcomings to one Dr. Clive Alexander. And the louse concurred! But I’ll explain about the good doctor later, as he definitely bears mention.
Okay, so I wasn’t content. But I’m not alone. After all, whose legs (other than those of digitally enhanced models) can’t stand to lose a tangled web of spider veins and a tub of cottage cheese? Then there are wrinkles—as in wrinkle here, wrinkle there, wrinkle, wrinkle everywhere. Oh! And not-so-strategically-placed moles.
The point is: There’s something somewhere on every someone’s body that could benefit from some type of beauty enhancement (e.g., sclerotherapy, dermabrasion, lift, tuck, implants, liposuction). At least, that’s the thinking I came around to.
So I guess I did want to be made over. Sort of. And it’s all Clive Alexander’s fault—
Oops. Like I said, I’ll explain about him later.
As for the beginning of the end of Kate as I knew her, it started when a makeup artist and his crew stopped me and my housemate on a San Francisco street and asked if we’d like to be made over for an upcoming issue of Changes magazine.
Tempting, especially as I’d recently cornered my reflection and decided that something had to be done to stop the downward slide of the woman in the mirror. Which brings me back to Clive Alexander. Again!
Anyway, call it fate or just plain chance, standing before me was the fashionably bald Michael Palmier. And he wanted to transform me, among other things. Turns out he’s also a pretty good kisser, though not as good as Clive—
I digress. Or should I say obsess? Of course, I suppose that’s my cue to rewind and begin with the night Clive entered my relatively uncomplicated sphere of existence. The night those unblinking eyes swept through me as if I were invisible. The night I took up residence in front of my bathroom mirror instead of cracking open my Bible. The night I excused myself from Bible study by calling the exercise before the mirror “soul-searching.”
Soul-searching—ha! Couldn’t have been further from the truth.

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