My eyes are blue, and large, and almond-shaped–one person described them as “like a malamute’s.” When it’s warm, they turn glass-green. Not like a malamute’s.
My nose was once called “button-like” once. I call it bulbous. It–along with my chipmunk cheeks–are spattered with freckles that get darker in the summer. The damn things lead me to constantly trying to “wipe off that spot” on my face when I see them.
My skin is pale–one time, my father called me “glow in the dark.” He was not far off. My face is ovaline, and never quite fits those stand-up wooden cutouts at the pumpkin patch where you can be a farmer or a lobster or a Jack-O-Lantern.
My earrings are usually long, dangle-y, and make tiny clinking sounds when I move my head. I love my earrings, I pick them out with pride–searching for the prettiest, kitchiest, most ME earrings I can find.
They are often covered by my hair. Asymmetrical–pixie-cut short on one side, a vibrant red concealing royal purple underneath, like a secret rebellion from the professional demands of my life. When I’m feeling bold, I’ll pull it back and flaunt the purple–when I’m upset, I will hide behind it, comb it down past my chin and sink my head forward.