I am 5’10”. I have broad shoulders and big bones. I have pale, gray eyes—a dark blue ring around the edge of my iris, gold-green rips bursting from the pupil. I have the same down-turned eyes and mouth as my mother, Grandma’s droopy, Buddha-like earlobes and doughy German cheeks. My dad left me his posture, his jaw and his poker face.
I am overweight. I have Shingles scars on my cheek, eye and temple and almost no upper lip. There’s a space in my bottom lash line where the lashes won’t grow. My forehead is beginning to fold. My cheeks are brown and freckled.
My hair is brown. Probably. Inside my head. Probably graying. I color my hair, so I wouldn’t really know. It’s usually blonde on the outside, sometimes red, sometimes pink. Short. Like a man’s would be. I keep it short because I have a deranged, panicky hormonal reaction to wisps of hair brushing the sides of my face. And because I have no thyroid (cancer). My hair misses that organ terribly. Refusing to grow from sadness and grief.
I am odd. Breathtaking. Unique.
I would say my eyes are my kindest feature.
They look deep inside. They search out truth, soft and certain truth. They search for the broken parts of others. They listen and wait. They are patient, sad and silent. They run at the drop of a hat and love so quickly. They never lie. They do not fail. They can always see what’s real.