I have been a face for thirty eight years now. It’s been real.
The sum of my parts isn’t unattractive, but individually, I’ve seen better. But then I have an amazing ability to dissect and pull myself apart – ya know, just for kicks.
I’ve changed. My friends tell me I haven’t, but I know I have.
I guess I could’ve taken better care of myself, but fuck it! Who wants to look like some freaky porcelain doll when they hit 60?
I’ve been burnt, slapped, kissed, painted, dehydrated, unwashed, scrubbed, experimented on.
I’ve been lived in. But I’ve had fun.
All those years, all thirty eight of them, I can see them now.
My forehead has started to wrinkle in a way that suggests I have been more surprised than disappointed in my lifetime.
My hairline has crept back; when exactly did that happen? Was it while I was being surprised by something??
(It’s like, you never see a guy mid comb-over. He’s bald or he’s combed over. Where do they hide while that wisp of hair is being cultivated?)
That bit that sits over my eyes, under my eyebrows. What’s the technical term for it? Hoods? Brow hoods? Brow-bone hoods?? Well, they have started to sag a little. I guess I hadn’t even noticed until I pulled them up one day and boom! Hello twenty one year old me…
I see myself settling into the lines of my mother, my grandmother. So familiar yet foreign to me.
But you know, I wouldn’t change a thing. I’m the only version of me there is, so who’s to tell me I’m wrong?
This is me.
Every trickle of laughter that has spilled from my lips or rumbled from my belly to wrinkle my eyes; it was worth it.
Every frown, every late night, every worry, every sadness, every stress that etched itself across my skin; it was worth it.
Every line, every pigment, every black circle.
This is me.
Unfiltered, untweaked, unedited.
This. Is. Me.