I love beauty in all its forms.  It is, as this collaboration requests, one of my favorite things.  Okay, I said it.

  I wasn't, however, talking about standard Madison Avenue issue beauty.  It is a narrow view at best; anyone can airbrush it or buy it into existence.  No, there are other things to celebrate.

  As an example, my mother is what used to be called handsome.  Strong bone structure, a wide, devastatingly thin mouth, a Roman nose, large liquid brown eyes, and a smooth olive complexion make her a woman to watch, and it is my firm belief that her small feet and piano hands are an added bonus.  Her hair is best described as premature silver; the texture is silk, the look fox, and sable trims the edges back and front.  I look nothing like her; I'm tall and thin with reddish brown hair, a feline face, and as far as skin, an ivory canvas with Jackson Pollack freckles splattered all over in faded sepia.  My eyes, wide-set, are hazel, my overbite forever threatening to make me lisp--the rest changes without notice.  Although, granted, I too have small feet and piano hands.

  My grandmother is the beauty.  At five foot nothing, she is in her eighties and still surpassing the latest starlets du jour.  Her feet and hands are likewise small, her frame small-boned and petite, her heart-shaped face still captivating, blue almond eyes peering out at the world, short white hair crowning all--and she hasn't yet remarried.  Her skin is smooth and creamy.  I can't help but marvel at her.

  A friend of mine, at seventy, is still very much a dark, exotic beauty, her personal style chic in its simplicity.  New Orleans, when she lived there, adored her.  I adore her.  God bless.

  I confess I love watching actresses such as Lauren Bacall and admire them more so than their younger cohorts.  I watch the older men in the business (hello, Robert Redford!) for much the same reason.

  I've said my piece.