This is the way I heard it.

Back in the 70s, before the world knew him by a single name, a battered boy stared into

an unforgiving mirror and considered his many imperfections.

A split lip, a swollen jaw, a black eye.

Painful, but not as painful as the words that accompanied the beating.

Look at a mirror, boy.

Your lips are too fat for your mouth.

Your nose is too flat for your face, and your skin doesn't match your brothers.

I'm trying to run a business here.

The boy in the mirror sighed.

His father was right.

His face was not the face of a pop star.

It was a flawed face, a swarthy face, a face that he could no longer live with.

In his mother's makeup cabinet, the boy found a solution.

A glass jar filled with white powder.

He opened it, sprinkled some of the powder into his hands, and began to rub it onto

his face, winsing as he did so.

His wounds were still tender, courtesy of the man, who would not tolerate a single mistake

on stage or even in rehearsal.

Slowly the boy in the mirror saw his complexion lighten.

Would it be enough to qualify his violent and unpredictable father?

Would it be enough to satisfy the people who paid to see him perform?

...