Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.  Possibly one of the most truthful statements ever made.  It explains the subjective nature of the word, the concept, the reality.
My best friend holds the seemingly typical Western view of what is beautiful.  He likes his girls blond with blue eyes and skinny.  And if they aren't that smart, all the better - he just wants something pretty on his arm, like so many others.
I'm proud to say I've never bought into all of that.  I think beauty is in the imperfections.  The things which make us real.
Like her.
The girl from the bookstore.  She was in the art section, reading a book on Klimt.  Her hair was what caught my eye first; it was so red, so vibrant and long and wavy.  That in itself was beautiful.  But it was only when I saw her pale face with a few freckles and a slightly big nose that I deemed her more than worthy of the word.  She was stunning.  And with it intimidating.
I spent 10 minutes thinking of the different ways I could approach her.  I could ask about her book.  I could ask if she knows where something is.  I could just introduce myself.  I could tell her that her hair looks like a sunset over sea...
I spent too long agonizing and imagining though because when those 10 minutes were up, she was leaving.
I watched her walking towards the exit and thought if she turns around before she reaches the door, then I'll smile.
She didn't.  And I didn't.
And needless to say, the bookshop has become one of my favourite haunts.