To dangerous curves

I was the first girl in school to wear a bra. I was ten years old. Ashamed of my curves, I hid myself in bulky sweaters and walked in an awkward way, like a baby giraffe, sulking away from the cat calls. At 17, I decided to re-shape my eyebrows, which resembled a hairy caterpillar. I was in love with liquid eyeliner, and mastered it while sitting on the toilet seat on a Saturday afternoon, going "over and over" until the line was straight and smooth. The women I looked up to were classy, sexy, stylish and mysterious. I wanted to be like those ladies. 
Then one day I saw her! I was 17 years old. I walked into the house of an aging playboy who had an extensive movie collection in a room converted to house his trinkets, trophies and movie memorabilia. The poster on the wall was obvious in it's sex appeal. She was tough looking. Beautiful. Exotic features and a robust chest. She was not afraid to have curves. She displayed them the way somebody displays their switchblade, right before they slice you. I was in awe of her because she didn't look like the kind of woman who would stare at the sidewalk while waiting for the "walk sign" to appear. 
Her name was Tura Santana. A cult actress, who starred in some memorable racy films. 
I imagined that she was also a tender hearted woman with a strong laugh. She probably gave good advice on men, shoes and spices. I imagined Tura was a superhero for the girls who weren't talked about in Vogue, Elle and Cosmo.
We had curves, damn it! We weren't the women, designers had on their minds in their spring and fall collections. We weren't the women that Hollywood wanted to cast as leading roles. We hated diets, wore high heels to the corner store and loved our arched eyebrows and natural cleavage.
We spoke a different language and probably scared Bambi.
Tura Santana remained an icon in a world that so rapidly forgets the original birds and gives props to the nameless starlets that pose along for the latest ride.
She managed to keep her self a mystery. When I think of Tura Santana, she's leaning against a car, sun shining down upon her, while she looks on, unto a dusty throad ahead, eager to break some laws and hearts.
An original "bad ass", she was in a class of her own. My baby sister reminds me of this kind of woman. Brassy, sassy and not to be messed with. I thought of her today, with her big wavy hair, and her curves. My sister's refusal to buy into the belief that "Thin is in". 
What matters is confidence. And mix that with intelligence, class and sass and you got yourself a special kind of lady.  
To Miss Santana, who rode into our hearts with Faster Pussycat, kill, kill! May you reach your peaceful destination in god speed. To dangerous curves!