Unfinished Symphony (Logan 3)

was my mother. Perhaps that was very true. "I wish the world we lived in wasn't so

conscious of every little thing," Dorothy said, dreamyeyed as she petted the purring cat in her lap. "Philip

wants me to be perfect, to remain perfect. If I have a

hair out of place, he asks why I didn't go to the beauty

salon this week," she said a bit more mournfully than

I would have expected.

"He doesn't seem like that," I told her. She

snapped out of her reverie and raised her eyebrows. "He's a man, isn't he? They're all the same,

waving a magnifying glass over you, checking for

wrinkles, for age spots, measuring your bosom, your

waist, your hips, looking for an ounce of ugly fat. "I have a personal trainer," she continued, "who

comes to the house three times a week. It's such a

bore, but I bear it for Philip's sake. And my own, I

suppose," she said with a sigh. "Well, a woman has to

do all she can, doesn't she?" she added.

"I'm not sure. I've never really thought about it I

guess," I said.

"Of course you haven't. You're still young and

beautiful. You have a way to go, but believe me, one

day you'll wake up and look in the mirror and notice a

little wrinkle here, a little more puffiness there and

you'll realize it's going to take some work to look

beautiful.

"Of course," she continued, "if you're bright

enough, you won't settle for just anyone and you'll

marry someone substantial as I did, so he can provide

you with the best there is when it comes to cosmetic

surgery."

"Surgery?"

"Now don't sit there and flatter me and tell me