I have wrinkles. Not
those tiny fine things only visible under a 10x magnifying glass with the aid
of a 1KW dentist lamp, but the real McCoy.
Two things conspired to bring this unwelcome reality home yesterday.
A little bit of historical and somewhat hysterical
perspective is needed in order to understand this all. So bear with me. When I first attended an optician in N Ireland in my forties he
did all the usual tests. One included
looking at a display that looked remarkably like graph paper. To me it looked crooked in places as if bent
by undulating hills. This observation
concerned the optician, I could tell. He
peered into the back of my eye with his little torch and told me to look up and
sideways. There was something wrong he
told me. Several tests later he showed
me a picture of the back of my eye and there was an ominous black spot in the
middle of each. He made an appointment
for me to see a consultant at the local hospital as I had it seemed macular
degeneracy. It was scary to be told this,
as I already knew how quickly this disease could take away your eyesight. I left the opticians needing not one set of
glasses but two. One for reading and
one for far away and in my head the worrying thought that my eyesight could get
a great deal worse than it already was.
Fortunately, the specialist, after much examination, said I had
something else. I have something that
looks scarily like macular degeneracy but for some reason does not progress as
fast. That black circle in each eye has
remained roughly the same over the past fifteen years. Each year at the routine eye test every
optician, it is never the same one, looks worried and informs me the bad news
that I have macular degeneracy and I comfort each of them immediately with
“It’s okay, it just looks like that but it isn’t!”
After several years the opticians took on a new
assistant. He was French and young with
eight leather bangles on his arm. I was
used to the young female assistants who when you put on a set of frames and asked
their opinion would chew on their finger nails and shrug their
disinterest. This young Frenchman was
completely different. I chose one set
of round frames and turned to him and he inspected me and then said in a lovely
French accent,
“This makes your face look ‘grosser’,fatter!”
I hastily took the offensive frames off and hesitantly
picked up another set completely different in design, very modern. Again, he
paused and really looked at me. It was
quite disconcerting. He said,
“These make your face look long like ‘cheval’, you know like
a horse.”
This time I practically threw the frames back on the
shelf. I felt very nervous about making
my next choice. Goodness knows what he
might say. I don’t have a lot of
confidence about my looks at the best of time, so this whole business was
really crushing. I reluctantly, picked
one at random, I remember it was a bright violet. What on earth was I thinking?
The truth was, I was panicking.
He held his chin with his hand and then spoke,
“This one makes you look clever…but ugly.”
By now I was incapable of choosing another pair of
glasses. I could not stand one more
insult or there would be tears.
Instead, I asked plaintively,
“What frames would you suggest?”
He immediately slid over to a completely different display
cabinet and selected two frames and held them out to me saying,
“Either of these would be fine, they suit your face and
complexion.”
I nervously, put on one and looked at him nervously awaiting
judgement. He looked at me for a long
moment, head held on one side judiciously and them said angrily,
“No, no, no try the other!”
I despairingly obeyed and again he peered at me and I
awaited his judgment call with breath abated.
Perhaps these made my face ‘cochon’pig-like? I was preparing myself for the next cutting remark, when he
pronounced,
“These are perfect, they suit your face and skin tone. The shape is really good on you.”
You cannot begin to know the relief I felt as I left the
shop. Strangely, every year from then
on I would ask for the French guy when choosing glasses. Despite all the hurtful comments I trusted
his unflinching honest taste.
Yesterday, while walking down town in Sliema a young sales
assistant accosted me on the pavement outside a beautician’s shop. She asked me my name and then, like the
Frenchman, peered aggressively into my face.
She announced,
“I have some cream that will get rid of those wrinkles
around your eyes”,
she sounded sure of herself. It was tempting to respond with,
“Look when you are three times your age, this will be your
lot too.”
But instead just told her I was fine with my wrinkles and
walked on. Later, a young student of
mine, who is studying the book Purple Hibiscus pointed at a word in the text,‘wrinkled’
and asked what it meant. I wrinkled my
jacket up and pointed to the creases hoping that would suffice. It didn't and so I pointed to the area
around my eyes and said, “like this!”
She understood immediately and as we proceeded with the lesson my heart
sank like a deflated balloon. Later
that evening I put on my reading glasses and looked at my face.
