I have never been beautiful. And, of course, my appearance has
deteriorated over time. It is something
I have become used to. When I look in
the mirror these days, and that is not very often, I am not surprised by what I
see. Neither am I disappointed, as I
have given up hope of catching myself in a good light.
Let me tell you what I see. First, the shape of my head is noticeably
irregular, with a medium-sized bump just in front of the crown. Next, my forehead is lined. It always has been, ever since I can
remember. People used to say I must be a deep thinker. Only some of them were being kind. Now the lines are deeper, but the traces
they follow date back to my school days, when they did not go unnoticed by
bullies. My eyes are large and green;
some might say they are intelligent eyes, that they are insightful or
sincere. I have learned not to set much
store by what other people say.
I have meagre lashes, but it is
usually boys who have the lavish kind.
My nose is straight and my mouth is full. My hair is mousy, fine and thin. When I was young, I wanted thick, straight blond hair, like my
friend Lizzy’s. We all want what we
cannot have.
There is perhaps nothing so far
to complain about very much, you might say.
And so I come to my moles: the crawling growths that spread themselves
over the side of my face and the underside of my jaw. If you could see me now, you would probably recoil. I have
noticed that even the most educated, the most sympathetic person has difficulty
in hiding the innate disgust my moles excite in them. Ah, yes. Disgust is not
too harsh a word, I can assure you. And
the others? Those who make no attempt to hide their feelings towards me? They cannot help themselves, but stare in
horror at what they see, as they sit on the bus clutching their shiny, plastic
bags full of new things or as they push their wholesome choices around the
supermarket. Young children are the
worst. I do not admire their honesty,
as their obsequious parents do.
My moles. My nevi. How can I describe them? I should say they are more or less dark
brown in colour, although there are two above my left eye that are noticeably
lighter. My husband called them Castor
and Pollux. All have a rubbery, soft
texture and, apart from one large mole near my ear, are hairless. The one near my ear has short, thick hairs
that bristle untidily. My husband had a
name for this one too. He loved me too
much. He couldn’t help it. None of us can choose whom we love.
What more can I tell you? That I am ambivalent to my nevi? That
Castor and Pollux are my favourites?
That I like them for being different?
You may think this kind of reasoning strange and I would not blame
you. I can only explain it as a truth,
a principle that has grown inside me as my moles have swelled and spread; have
become part of my life. Now, I am not
sure I could be separated from them.
There was a time when I believed
my mother loved me. A time when she called me beautiful and, because I was not
yet self-aware, I let myself be preened and cosseted in exchange for the
comfort I felt from the warm glow of her approval. I did not notice how she suffered. I did not recognise the
mortification that lay beneath her smile.
But wait a moment, a story must
start somewhere nearer its beginning, and so I will go back and show myself
more clearly to you, before I reveal what I have done. I expect that you will judge me.
But I do not care.
