consistency
“A man’s face is his autobiography,” said Oscar Wilde. “A woman’s face is her work of fiction.” Wilde was a clever, witty man who said a lot of clever, witty things which we sometimes quote when we want to appear clever and witty. But a thing can be clever and witty and still be nonsense.
A face, after all, is just a thin layer of flesh laid over some striated muscle wrapped around a knot of bone. A man’s face, a woman’s face, Oscar Wilde’s face…all flesh, muscle and bone. All of them part autobiography, all of them part fiction. All faces have known truth and lies, known pride and shame, known sorrow and joy, known wonder and despair; all faces show it.
In that sense this face is no different from any other face. And yet, of course, this face is absolutely singular. No other person has this face. This face, like all other faces, is both gift and reward; the gift of genetics, the reward of experience. This face, like all other faces, is imperfect and yet it is utterly and totally without flaw. This is her face, the face she has grown into. This face is in all ways wonderful.
So is mine. So is yours. But it is so very, very hard to believe it.
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