Margarine

I have this remembrance: I was about four years old. I stood in the bedroom of my parents. My mother, having a feverish infection, whispered: »Prepare yourself, and go to the kindergarten yourself. I am unable to do something.«

I started preparing my lunch box in the kitchen. I smeared margarine on the bread. I was amazed and impressed how glossy the margarine looked on the bread. I remembered that I sometimes had seen glossy fingernails at pretty women. That must have been the way they did it: They smeared margarine on their nails. So that morning I did the same to impress my friends in the kindergarten. I smeared margarine on my fingernails. I pulled on my gloves to protect my beautiful glossy fingers. I left the house cheerfully. I whistled all the time on the way to kindergarten. I arrived. I rushed into the room. I said to my friends: »Look at my beautiful fingers.«

I raised my hands. I took off the gloves. I learned that beauty is an illusion.

 

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