Author: Christina Holt

I was flipping through a tall stack of Mama’s magazines one afternoon when I was twelve years old. She was flying back to Iowa from Los Angeles and I was waiting for her in my room. Sitting with my legs crossed in bed, I spread a Victoria’s Secret catalogue in front of me—the Christmas edition. Women pranced around the glossy pages donning Santa hats, carefully placed atop long hair that curled down their backs like smoke. They wore matching lingerie, red velvet stitching and translucent mesh covering thin torsos in minuscule. White furry cuffs dangled loosely at one model’s slender wrists and I wondered who she was, this girl-woman, what kind of house she lived in, what her bedroom must have looked like, and who she would be surprising with her brand new see-through Santa robe. read more