I want her never to feel that she is with all of womanity on a ladder that equates beauty with worth. I want her never to join the oppressors by talking casually about her friends’ looks, or to instinctively perform a half-predatory, half-defensive assessment of every other woman within a hundred-yard radius. And yet I want her to appreciate the many modes of human beauty -- not only the boobs and butts and legs of Garry Winogrand's deceptively titled 'Women are Beautiful,' but the unexpected lines of an eyebrow or a hand. I want her to feel unencumbered by anyone's opinion of her beauty or lack thereof. And yet I also want her to feel beautiful, to wear whatever she wants, to luxuriate in a sense that her chosen mate finds her irresistible, to never fear a dressing room or bathing suit or florescent light.