The thing that struck me most, when my daughter started secondary school in September, is how different all the girls in her year look. All shapes and sizes, from teeny-tiny waifs who look like they’re barely out of reception, to big strapping ones, taller than me, and with all the accessories to match.
Or, as my daughter herself put it with great excitement: “Mummy, some of them have got even bigger boobs than you!”
Tall, short, stocky, skinny, sporty or speccie, they are all special in their own way. All starting out on life’s long journey; no longer children but not yet women. And still, for the most part, mercifully unaware that their appearance matters much.
Sure, they might admire someone’s pretty hair, or blue eyes, or cheek dimples; but that nasty little worm of self-doubt that afflicts so many older girls and women has yet to burrow its way into their hearts and minds.