Note: This autobiographical account was written by Meryl, who's modeled for me a few times before.

...

I've always liked to collect things. Even as a schoolgirl, everyone called me a squirrel stashing things away for winter. My husband despairs at all the clutter I add to the house, year after year, but once one of my trinkets is mine I don't want to give it up. I feel like each of them says something about me, or in some cases several things about me. Just for example, take my maplewood hairbrush. I was thirty when I acquired it. The wood has a bright blonde finish that catches the eye, all round ovals and slender, curving lines. It fits so comfortably in the palm of my hand, or in the largest pocket of my purse, that you'd think it was made just with me in mind (it wasn't, in case you were wondering).

The front of the head is covered in soft, golden bristles, perfectly spaced, just rigid enough to catch one's hair and smooth it out without snagging or pulling, and silky soft to the touch. It's really a beauty to look at, or to feel. Every bristle in just the right place, evenly spaced, standing at attention and bright gold in color. It has the look and feel of comfort, yes, but also a sort of refined propriety. It's just as efficient at beautification as you'd think by looking at it.

The back of my hairbrush is the exact opposite of everything I just said. It's heavy, hard, and brutally thick, with an artless, swollen bulge in its oval frame. It makes an unpleasant, loud clunk or tap when I set it down against my nightstand or table. The veins in the wood are messy and wild beneath the varnish.