Margaret looks in the mirror and sees a shlump.
“Oh, I’m a shlump,” she wails.
Greasy hair, bad skin, bad posture!
Margaret’s wealthy and she’s willing to spend money to look like money.
Money straightens her hair and expensive shampoos keep it soft and sweet-smelling.
Years of dancing lessons and expensive training straighten her posture a little bit.
Nothing seems to work on her skin.
Not dieting, not cleansers, not birth control.
Always there’s that constellation of red spot across her forehead to tell her she’s a shlump.
“I’ll show you,” growls Margaret, and moves on to stronger things.
Bleaches.
Powders.
Dark magicks.
The voodoo works, a little bit — the pimples move, anyway, down off her face and onto her back, which she doesn’t care about.
After three years she looks less like a shlump.
But her mouth is pursed from the strain of keep herself straight.
And her jaw is sore from all the chanting.

She returns her books of power to the library.
It isn’t until that evening when she realizes she’s left her sweater with all her notes in it on the bus!
When she goes back to the library the librarian just stares at her blankly.
“Voodoo, ma’am?”