When I was a girl, maybe 9 or 10 yrs. old, I confided to my grandmother that I liked to wear long sleeved shirts to cover my arms, because I was embarrassed by the many moles dotting my forearms.
“Oh no, those aren’t moles,” she explained. “They are beauty marks, so you must be one of the most beautiful girls at school.”
I still carry the innocence and tenderness of this exchange with me.
And I wear short sleeved shirts.