Free Flawless by Lara Chapman

worn all day. “Right.”
    â€œWhere do you want to watch? From the stage or the sound room?”
    â€œDefinitely the stage,” I say. I’m not in the mood for a bunch of chitchat with Mom’s producer, Vic, who’s been gunning to date her since the first day she arrived over ten years ago. He’s a nice-enough guy but I get the feeling he’s trying to play dad to me. Not cool.
    â€œOkay,” she says. “Don’t leave. I still want you to meet Jen and then we have a dinner date, remember?”
    â€œI’ll be right here,” I say, pointing to my usual seat at the edge of the room that gives me a great view of the news desk.
    Mom takes her seat at the right of her coanchor, David Newlund. He’s a pretty decent guy, even if he’s totally self-absorbed. One of the things I’ve learned about this business is that most on-air journalists, especially anchors, have a tendency to be full of themselves. Even Mom can get that way from time to time, which is one of the reasons I’m sticking to print, where the news is all about the facts. Nothing else matters. Not the way you dress, the way you look, or how old you are.
    Watching the two of them behind the glass desk, it’s easy to see how anchors become that way. They’re spectacular forty-somethings with perfect hair, perfect teeth, and perfect clothes. The two of them together make a showstopping anchor team; they’ve been ranked first in the Houston market since they paired up nearly six years ago.
    When the director calls out the one-minute warning, Mom takes one last look at the papers in front of her. I know from years of following her around the station that she and David have spent the better part of the day going over the news stories with Vic, deciding which stories to report and in which order. The fact that she and David keep the papers in front of them during the newscast has never made sense to me. They keep their eyes on the teleprompter, only ad-libbing when they have to stretch for time.
    I watch the newscast, mesmerized by the range of emotions that play over Mom’s face, alternating between amused and deadly serious as the news story she’s reporting warrants. Anyone who thinks reporters aren’t actors is fooling themselves. I know that Mom’s genuinely upset when she reports a murder or fatal car wreck, but to seamlessly transition from that story to a feel-good story about a dancing pig … well, that takes talent. And Mom’s got it in spades.
    Over the years, Mom’s not so gently pushed me to follow in her footsteps. And there’s a huge part of me that wants to do just that. I’ve grown up at this station, watching news stories unfold before my eyes. It’s an addictive industry, really. Especially if you thrive in an environment where no two days are the same. But I have my reasons for insisting on print journalism.
    Coming to the station is always tricky for me because they have a huge turnover, especially with all the interns they hire. So a cruise through the station is uncomfortable as people try not to stare at the anchor’s daughter’s enormous nose. And I’ll give them credit; they always try to look me in the eyes, but it never quite works. Without even realizing it, their eyes wander back to the gigantic beak I’ve been graced with.
    Mom says I’m stubborn to a fault, but that’s really not it. I’m not refusing to get a nose job just to assert my independence. It’s more an issue of being determined to accept who I am. Mom devoted an enormous amount of energy into raising a self-assured young woman, and now that I’ve become that, she’s irritated I won’t cave to society’s idea of beauty.
    Not that I don’t consider the wretched rhinoplasty every now and then. I’m only human. But I’ve spent so many years insisting I can live with my nose that I actually kind of believe