For reasons known only to the Universe, I was looking at myself in the mirror a little while ago and I just remembered a lot of the reasons the face looks the way it does. I thought it was vaguely interesting so now you get to hear about it, or not, I am pretty okay with either direction truthfully.
If you look at the corners of both of my eyes, under the crow’s feet and the laugh lines, there are, what now, are these tiny scars, one on each side. When we were little, my sister smacked me in the face with a bronze Pooh bear thing, a lamp I think, and busted me open. Two separate times I may add. Now, I don’t remember this happening at all, but the family lore is that she was fucking around with it and I got in the way. Whether it was that or my sociopath mother, I will never know, but the scars are real if nothing else.
Thousands of damnable acne scars line up on one another, making parts of my face look like the moon during the Late Bombardment Era. I am not particularly self-conscious about them anymore, mostly because there is precisely nothing I can do about them. I have had my plastic surgery for this lifetime thank you, they can stay there, adds character don’t you think?
Oddly enough my nose has been broken a bunch of times but it doesn’t do anything that would say that to an onlooker. Maybe I just had the good fortune to get hit equally on either side? It isn’t particularly big or small either, just there, doing it’s thing and was once a mighty vacuum of all things cocaine.
On the rare occasion, I part my lips when I smile you will notice the horrors of my teeth are very obvious. Running into doors, fists, car crashes, people crashes, floor dates, bar stools, and a few other things have made them all very unique in their way. Yes, they are all real, but that’s pretty much because I can’t afford to go and get the things I need to get done.
I have jumbo elephant/royal English family ears. Always stuck out like school us stop signs, but thankfully my gigantic melon has at least become vaguely proportional to them as the years have gone by.
My eyes, a lot less bright and blue than they were in the California desert. A bluish-gray is what I get now, although I am told they do some uber blue things from time to time. I have never been a fan of my eyes. Ever. My mother’s eyes. My sister and my brother too. There is nothing good about a color that reminds you of horrible people, places, and times. While I shall not go and pluck them out anytime soon, I am not going to wax poetic about them.
Then there is all the damn hair.
From the very top where I am fighting a losing battle with genetics to the forest of fur that populates the lower half of my mug. I started growing a mustache by the time I was 13 and I haven’t seen my top lip in decades at this point. There are a very, VERY, few people who will read this who have seen me clean-shaven except for said mustache. I am lazy and I have many a scar under the fur from shaving, so I thought I might as well grow it out. besides, Naomi liked the beard and that was the deal sealer. There are a few more colors there than there used to me. Some blonde and brown, red and gray, white from time to time. I will probably never shave it again, but life is a mysterious thing and I have done stupider this for easier reasons.
So while it is a broken, beaten, weary, weathered and hairy thing, it is mine.
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