“Even if you’re no great beauty,” her mom always said, “your face, hair and nails should be always well looked after.”

“Even if you don’t have a lot of clothes,” she continued, “the ones you have should be of good quality.”

“Never,” her mom also said, “Never chase after the latest fashion. It’s better to find your own style and stick to it. You can make references to the current fashion trends perfectly well using accessories.”

How this provincial woman, who had never finished high school, could know these very un-Soviet things, Dina had no idea. And why, despite all this, her mother did not follow her own principles, was a mystery too.

Dina dressed with her mom’s help. Her mother sewed or re-sewed from her own clothes the items she thought a metropolitan student needed.

This included a formal suit, a few blouses, a few skirts, and an evening dress, of course. Only the outerwear and shoes were bought in the stores. Well, and the underwear, of course. For those things, Dina’s mom selflessly saved money from her modest salary, often denying herself some nice trifle.

“Sweetie,” her mom would say when Dina would try and dissuade her from a new purchase, “Dinochka, I’ve already proven myself, but you need to make a statement: a fine dress helps to impress!” And she would laugh a bright, child-like laugh.

Nevertheless, even with such a low assessment of her appearance, Dina did not think that she was any worse than the people around her.

“I’m just different from the rest.” She comforted herself this way until she got used to this self-identification, which worked like a filter, capturing and rejecting unwanted thoughts and feelings about her appearance, which were nothing but a distraction from life itself, so beautiful and amazing in all its aspects.

“Even girls worse-looking than me get married.” She would tell herself when she noticed an engagement ring on the finger of a really homely woman.

Until one day, her Inner Voice said in response, “All sorts of people get married… but is that what you want?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you really need someone to put a ring on your finger? Is that the extent of your dreams?”

Dina thought about it and replied, “No. I don’t think so.”

“So what is your dream?”

Dina thought about it again. “I want to love and be loved.”

“There you have it,” said the Inner Voice. “Being married does not necessarily mean loving and being loved. The reverse is also true: mutual love does not always imply marriage.”

“Really?” Dina was surprised.

Like all girls, Dina of course thought about love and happiness, and about a family that she would someday have. She mentally tried on some guys as potential husbands, only the ones that she liked, of course.

Take Sergey, for example, who was the son of her mom’s friend Albina. He was four years older than Dina and they had known each other since early childhood.

When she was five years old, Dina realized that she loved Sergey.

She understood this by the indescribable happiness that she felt whenever her mom mentioned Albina, and any discussions of plans to do with Albina, which meant that Dina would see Sergey, and that her joy meant love. For what is love without joy?

Sergey was kind and sweet, and looked after her from the position of his age and life experience, after all, he was already going to school and knew a great deal.

Sergey took Dina to the movies, holding her hand. In the cinema bar, he bought her a soda with a bright yellow, thick syrup, a flaky pastry, always the most golden one, sprinkled with large granules of sugar, and then wiped her lips with a handkerchief and brushed the crumbs off the collar of her dress.