I’m surrounded by newborns of late and they’re unequivocally spotless. Along the way, of course, spots do form -- stenciled by the wand of genetics, photosynthesis, and maybe a spray of karma. Some are considered “beauty marks,” and some are probably not.
Early along my way, say eight years old-ish, a rich red smudge emerged beneath my left eye, as if the pupil had proudly voted in a new Islamic democracy. While the kids at school nicknamed it “Bertha,” my dermatologist would classify it as the relatively uncommon “port-wine stain.” Basically, as the doctor explained to me, it’s like winning the lottery when the jackpot is having a rare bird take a scarlet dump on your face. And eventually, when vanity and sarcasm began to enrich the uranium of my adolescence, this poop stain on my face began to stink … for upon every social encounter, a new theater of horseshit was duly staged by the infinite inquiry:
“So what happened to your eye?”
A few of my friendlier responses included:
“I had a careless routine on the un-even bars.”
“That’s what happens at my house when you spill paint in the garage.”
“I got into a fight about the better milk, 2% versus skim. Which one do you like?”
Rarely would I concede the harmless truth. Instead, DUI'd on pride, I felt threatened by the question and therefore free to indulge in the practiced deceit of a man with something to hide.
(I did get my share of vagina though).
Later along my way, during college, I had myself a new cosmetic turmoil. It really wasn’t a shaving accident per se, it’s just that I was a late bloomer and had never shared that Aqua Velvet moment with my father during high-school. As a result, I wasn’t grooming properly and my face had transformed into a lousy handshake. For nearly a year, my day to day consciousness was dominated by the worst paranoia, so keen was I to confirm the beholder as their eyes reflexively scanned the angry rash of razor burn across my cheeks. It was a terribly insecure time, and it would perpetuate in me a grievance towards the world that is still difficult to shake whenever I pass a particularly nasty constellation of pimples on the street or one of those hair-sprouting-leach-moles on the train.
Why are these people fated to tally the turnstile of these
immediate, stinging judgments throughout the public flow of their daily life?
Why did the chicken cross the road? And why should this arbitrary ruling of
aesthetics so significantly influence their social probabilities?
If I was ever handed the keys to the cosmos, my second order of business would be the eradication of all pimples and extraordinary moles (the first order of business, quite naturally, to reverse Obamacare). But if I was really
granted access to the heavens, what I would more likely learn is that we all get
the face we deserve … the face that will attract or repel the people and
circumstances that allow us to evolve and move forward. For me, I had a face that
schooled me through a repeated course of conceit, egotism, and the depths of
superficiality. It taught me a lot about empathy, a lot about compassion,
and I even learned a little bit about women’s make-up.
As for those newborns in our life, their skin will still be flawless for a while. Sometimes, when I am playing with my boy, I like to carry him in front of the mirror to see if he can recognize himself. When he sees my face, he smiles, but when he looks at himself, it just doesn’t seem to register. I wonder about the face he will grow into and what he would think if it isn’t what he wants.
All I can hope for him, is that he will still be staring with his heart.
