Without wearing any mask we are conscious of, we have a special face for each friend.—Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.
I am a huge fan of the Mel Brooks musical The Producers, so when the topic of faces comes up my mind immediately races to the closest thing that production has to a love song:
That face, that face, that dangerous face
I mustn’t be unwise
Those lips, that nose, those eyes
Could lead to my demise
That face, that face, that marvelous face
I never should begin
Those cheeks, that neck, that chin
Will surely do me in
That face, that face, that fabulous face
It’s clear I must beware
I’m certain if I fall in love, I’m lost without a trace
But it’s worth it for that face
Faces are special if for no other reason than our face holds our public identity; it is the association by which most people know us and no relationship, business or personal, has any depth without that recognition factor. The face may be the most important thing we photograph.
I had plenty of pimples as a kid. One day I fell asleep in the library. When I woke up, a blind man was reading my face.
Similarly, comedienne Phyllis Diller had some issues with some of the pictures taken of her:
My photographs don’t do me justice – they just look like me.
Our dog died from licking our wedding picture.
Regardless of whether one considers their face attractive, however, the face remains that one body part that is inescapably you. Some people opt for surgery in an effort to “improve” their face, or at least prevent it from looking its age, but rarely is such an exercise genuinely beneficial. Not to mention the fact that I see little benefit in trying to improve anything external when the person inside is still just as rotten as ever.
So, here we go with a week of faces. Sure, it may kill my weekly hit count given the fact that, as we’ve proven before, some people only visit when there’s a naked person in the picture, but I really don’t care. Just be glad that I chose pretty faces and not my own; I’m saving those for next week.