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Byline: Julia Reed
A few months ago a friend sent me a photograph he'd taken of me outside, in the middle of the day, at a fund-raising lunch. He thought he was doing me a favor-instead I went into a deep decline. The lines on my forehead were so dark and defined they looked like trenches, and the ones around my eyes weren't much better. The tinted moisturizer I was wearing did nothing to hide the ruddiness at the base of my nose and bore the indentations from my sunglasses at the bridge. Worse, there was a distinct line of demarcation on my neck where the moisturizer, which had turned inexplicably-garishly-orange, ended. And it had seemed so subtle and "soft ...