Yesterday at the supermarket I bought some apples.
I looked at them.
Some were bobbly, oddly shaped, blemished.
They were like the apples that grew on the tree in the garden where I grew up.
Not plastic-looking apples but real apples.
It was oddly comforting. Like for a moment I wasn't in a looks obsessed world, but one which appreciated an apple for it's appleness - not for it's plastic appearance.
I found my imperfect apples....absolutely perfect.