It doesn’t bother me at all when people react to my face, to the ridged, white contours of scar tissue that slither across my right cheek,
starting at my temple and running all the way down to my chin.
I am stared at, whispered about; I turn heads. It was reassuring to think that he would understand,
being something of a head-turner himself, albeit for very different reasons.
I eschewed the Telegraph today in favor of alternative reading matter.
I had spent an obscene amount of money on a small selection of women’s magazines, flimsy and lurid ones,
thick, glossy ones, all of them promising a range of wonders, simple but life-enhancing changes.
I had never purchased such items before, although I had, of course,
leafed through a few in hospital waiting rooms and other institutional settings.
I noted that, disappointingly, none of them had a cryptic crossword; indeed,
one contained a “soapstar word search” that would insult the intelligence of a seven-year-old.
I could have bought three bottles of wine or a liter of premium-brand vodka for the price of that little pile.
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