My feet ache with the strain of wearing these new three inch high heels all day. Strangely enough, they hurt more when I step out of them, as though missing a crucial body part. The agony of a phantom limb, blood red and sexy, severed and gone, Painted toe, strapped heel, waxed leg, coated with body lotion and hard work. Looking beautiful, or even presentable, is no easy job. Self confidence, that’s what we give you, the ads in all the glossies proclaim. A little too confident, airbrushed perfect faces soothing and fanning my insecurity. I am a bundle of nerves, a twistermaze of ligaments and sinew, all imperfections shouting to be seen, while the other me runs to hide them. Quickly, quickly. I am always one step behind, slouching, while this other me runs on merrily, hobnobbing, networking, getting along in the important world. I tell myself that I am pleasing myself only. We are like this only. But a stray hair walks out on my errant eyebrow line, mocking my assertion. I am disappointed with myself, with the image in the mirror that I can never be. The fault line of the cerebellum explodes, skewing apart my carefully put together face.