I don’t really like pictures of myself. I guess that’s pretty common. But then that dude painted a picture of me. And it kind of gave me the heebie jeebies. I can’t really explain it. I didn’t like it. And I didn’t like it not because I thought it didn’t look like me. I mean, I think that is recognizably me. But maybe because it was too much like me in ways that made me uncomfortable and not enough like me in the ways that I do comfort myself with. I mean, to be more specific, that even when I’m like “Oh, god, I feel hideous” I still rest assured that my hair will be doing something strange and wonderful because that is the nature of my hair. Or that, even if everything else is going wrong with my face, my eyes are nice. But I didn’t find those landmarks familiar in this face.
But then quite a few people all told me the same thing–that this looks like me in a moment they recognize, right before I laugh. Which, admittedly, is not a moment when I’m normally looking in the mirror. And then, this morning, my dad said, “I think it looks like my dad, like him before he laughed. I didn’t realize you shared that, but now I see it.”
And it has warmed my heart to that picture.