![]() ![]() That's the rap on Bette Davis, too, of course. Cold, vain, cheap, fussy and tactless, far fonder of her friends - of which she had, to me, a shockingly high number my mother regularly mused about selling tickets to her funeral - than her own family. I, however, have reason to suspect malice.īecause my grandmother was not a pleasant woman. Had the Allies relied upon hers and not those of that other Hollywood "Betty" - Grable - to inspire masculine morale during World War II, I'm pretty sure Hitler would have won.) I was stuck with grandma's, which were as undistinguished as her idol's. ![]() Sure enough, my mother went on to sprout very bold eyebrows (which I inherited), and long, lovely legs (which I did not. She claimed it was because she'd passed her one pregnancy - "I'm never doing THAT again!" -"binge-watching" (as we'd call it today) Crawford's films. Hilariously - that is, if you watched FX's mini-series The Feud, or have even a passing familiarity with pop culture lore - she named my mother "Joan." But previously, and forever after, she'd played up a natural resemblance - the eyes, of course, but also the less-remarked-upon nub-tipped nose - by styling her hair like Davis' too: perilously side parted, raked stringently across, with an anti-climactic finale of stubborn, tiny curls. Not professionally, and barely amateurly, either: She only entered, and won, a single look-alike contest, well before my time. My grandmother was a Bette Davis impersonator. ![]()
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