Someone snaps a photo of you mid-sentence, and the small surprise is that you look the way you actually feel. Venus sits in your first house, the house of the body and the face you carry into a room, and so charm settled into your skin before you chose it. Strangers find you easier to look at than other strangers, and you knew this by the age of seven, the way some children know they are tall. Nobody warns you of the cost: when beauty is the first thing the world offers back to you, it can quietly become the only language you trust to negotiate with, and you forget you packed any others. Dress for the inside as much as the outside. The face you wear at sixty grows out of the face you trust at twenty, and the part of you no camera catches is the part worth tending most. You get to be lovely on purpose and still insist on being more than that.