The looks didn’t matter. Mme Pica knew this.
The Hero, as Mme Pica had begun to think of him - after all, he had not only tried to save JoJo from her loneliness ten years ago, he had inadvertently saved Mme Pica’s circus - had been raised as a commoner. He understood beauty, in the way that commoners did. He knew that JoJo was beautiful, he knew he, himself, was ugly and wretched.
JoJo had lived with freaks for all of her life; had been considered a freak for all of her life. She had no concept of beauty. She looked at his scars and hurts and saw only what he had been through. She still saw the person who had tried to save her once before. She would hurt because he hurt, but she would never understand the aesthetics.
This would save the business as well.
Because The Hero was here, JoJo would no longer try to leave. She could be unchained, she would fly above the audience. The Hero would provide an act as grotesque as JoJo’s was beautiful.
If they loved each other, all the better for them.
For Mme Pica, there was always the circus.