. For starters, let's consider the shape of it. Pea-head, melon-head, football-face...all things that I was referred to in my formative years. To be fair, I didn't help myself. When I was 14, it was fashionable to scrape all of your hair back with copious amounts of hairspray, save for two little bits which would hang down at either side of your face. Think Jackie from Hollyoaks, or any teenager in Croydon. Thus the spherical aspect of my bonce was accentuated; an effect which was further enhanced by the massive pair of hooped earrings that I insisted on wearing (again....Jackie).
And then there are my cheeks. I used to boast that I would never drown at sea with the aid of my trusty, built-in floatation devices (other girls got boobs..I got cheeks). I was also quite sure that, in case of nuclear war, I could quickly gobble up and store (hamster-style) enough food to get me through a week in a bunker. But people squeeze them. And it hurts. And having looked around the various members of my family, I know exactly where my cheeks are headed; the same way that those other girls' boobs are headed...South. My grandmother, before she passed away, did an excellent line in impressions of Churchill, the jowly insurance hound. And my Dad is pretty adept at the whole 'oh no,no,no,no,no...'. So I am coming to terms with the fact that I will, quite probably, have to prepare myself for a life of jowly misery.
Sagging cheeks and bulbous-shape aside, my inability to control the colour or movements in my face are the real issue at large. An example; ...a few weeks ago I started a new job. And I have a MASSIVE crush on one of my new colleagues. I'm talking EPIC. This crush is all-consumingly, life-ruiningly huge. As a result, I think that my new job is possibly the best job in the world. In fact, if Carslberg made new jobs, this one would be it. Wicked place, wicked location, wicked office, not so bad workload and I get to see the coolest person I can think of every single day.
So his desk is near my desk and I am forced to walk past it every time I send something to the printer. An excellent opportunity, you might think, to showcase my very best masterful, hip-swaying walk and white teethed smile. Not so. Not with this face. I can't seem to walk past without it contorting into some kind of gargoyle-esque clown’s mask. I was ok at the beginning, managing a little smile as I rushed by. But now it has turned into a kind of very quick stare. My eyes sort of bulge out of my head and my nostrils flare as he looks on, slightly bewildered as to why the girl who is perfectly normal at all other times, appears to have some kind of twitch that renders her slightly froglike. It's like my brain is saying 'must look nonchalant and normal' and my face just panics. The same thing happens when he walks past my desk. Can't handle that either. I just sort of 'do a little stare'. Occasionally it is accompanied by raised eyebrows, but mostly, it's just the eye-bulging.
I think my face might also be responsible for my failed career as an actress.... My best friend Mich pointed this out to me the other day. She had just finished telling me a particularly shameful story and I was looking at her with what I thought was a disapproving glare. It wasn't a real disapproving glare, since I think that everything that Mich does is amazing, even the morally ambiguous things. "You're supposed to reproach me when I tell you things like that" she exclaimed (apparently, failing to make her feel bad for her misdemeanours makes me a bad best friend). "I'm giving you my 'disapproving face'" I said "what more do you want?". Apparently the face was not portraying disapproval. "You look like you're constipated" she said.
Mich and I went on to try out a few more of my facial expressions. My 'angry' face looks "like the sun is in your eyes". My attempt at giving her 'daggers' provoked tumultuous laughter (as opposed to inane terror) and my 'looking her up and down in disgust' face caused Mich to ask me if I had lost something. Clearly, I need to work on this if I'm to get my dream-job number 5 (actress on Eastenders). Although, if I can just perfect spontaneous crying, then perhaps I can forgo the need for convincing facial expressions. Works for Adam Woodyatt. Nobody cries like Ian Beale...
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