"I was one of those people," says Lynnda, "who think California begins when you cross the Golden Gate Bridge driving north. Attentive readers (we have no other kind) noted Lynnda's potential last year in the July pictorial Heady Stuff (she was the model perched atop two giant lips) and again on the August cover (she was the boardwalk waif ogled by a crowd of comic-strip crazies).īefore she wandered in front of our viewfinder, Lynnda lived with a friend in Bolinas, a seacoast town above San Francisco.
The only thing that puzzles us is why it took so long. Rumor has it that a tiny electronic flash went off in his frontal lobe as the full extent of his discovery became evident. It's a familiar story, the stuff of late shows and soapers: A jaded staff photographer, unable to recognize the obvious when they're staring him right in the old F-stop, one day put on his glasses, pulled the hair from over his eyes and beheld the lovely Lynnda. She was working as a part-time photo stylist in Playboy's West Coast studio when someone asked her to pose for the gatefold. Lynnda Kimball is the victim of an unusual occupational hazard.
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