What are authors supposed to look like?

I have hair that, on any given day, might be confused with a dandelion puff gone wild.  I have an unsunned face, morning raccoon eyes.  I'm never glamorous.  I don't know how to try.  I'm at my absolute least glamorous at the club where I dance Zumba, and mostly I don't worry about this.  We are there to sweat.  (right?)  We are there for power.  (girl power!)

Today, however, I took an advanced reader's copy of Dangerous Neighbors to my friend, Joy, who is and has been a million wonderful things in this life and is currently the hottest chick on the Zumba floor, though she claims that she's in her seventh decade.  Joy is a Kindle reader, a former bookstore owner, a doll of a blond with gorgeous round eyes.  I took her Dangerous Neighbors because I had been promising her I would, and so there she stood, my book in her hand, when another of her friends addressed her.  She asked Joy what that blue book was.  Joy looked at me to explain.  I did my two-minute spiel and then the woman looked confusedly my way.

"You're an author?, you say.  Of this book?"

I nodded.  "I am."

"Isn't that remarkable," she said.  "When you think about meeting an author, you think she is going to look different somehow, stand out.  But I guess that's not really the case, is it now.  I mean, you don't look any different from the rest of us?"