I hadn't looked in the mirror for some time until yesterday. Sure, I check my hair in the morning to make sure any of the short hairs are sticking out. I smooth that unusual twist of a crown on the back of my head. I shave, combing the foam off my cheeks, scooping from my Adam's apple up to my chin, then around the mouth. I usually brush my teeth sitting on the toilet. None of this actually involves looking at my face and once I got thinking about it I realised that I hadn't looked at myself for months, if not longer. I actually started to wonder what shocks I'd find if I did spend some time doing just this. I'd genuinely forgotten what I looked like. So, by the time I got home I'd resolved to spend at least five minutes looking at myself - seeing what I could decipher from the thirty-nine years that have happened to my mug.
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With some trepidation I park my phizog in front of the mirror. However, I'm not too surprised. Everything is pretty much as I remember it. Perhaps my nose has got a little bigger - in every direction - like it's been outlined on some computer software and had a few percent pixelled up.
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Under my eyes the brown sweep is growing, sending them green. People used to say I had blue eyes and I took their word for it. It's been years since anyone has asked me what colour my eyes are or commented on them. In this time, they seem to have turned greener - an embarrassed green which is still straining to be blue. The colour of my eyes makes me think of one of those men who comb their hair over a bald patch with gooey lacquer. Has anything ever been more obvious or pitiful than a man with hair like that? The best way to say 'hey, I'm bald and hate it,' is to do just that. I'm digressing, but that's what I think about as I look into my eyes - my sad, ironic eyes.
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There are lines on my forehead. Not just when I raise my thickening eyebrows, but they are there all the time - not solid grooves yet - more razor edge strips crossing horizontally - four or five faraway shipping lanes. I ask myself if me using my face gives it wrinkles or it's the world using my face. I still have quite a large forehead. People have actually commented on this and I always reply 'it's to accommodate the brain.' Over the years I've been replying with this facetious phrase to someone telling me what I already know about the size of my head, I've become more sardonic, hardly bothered to even say it anymore. But I do. I say it slower, and in a more annoyed fashion. People don't really say it anymore though, but I see I still have a tall forehead. I can't help thinking that I my face is one people daren't comment on anymore. Not that it would be rude to do so, just that I look like I could be more acerbic in return. In fact, I could.
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Perhaps my lips have got a little more slobbery. Maybe I was staring so intently at my forehead that my bottom lip dropped a bit and began to water ever so slightly. I'm not sure, but the moist bottom lip makes me think of the sex this mouth has had. As an aside I tell myself that any fool of a man who thinks sex is about the cock is a reprobate. I proudly look at my mouth and say in my head 'this pair have always gone down on women.' Then the lip retracts back to widen into a smile. I have to sluice back a little saliva as I do so. My mind strays to thinking about kissing and nibbling a clitoris between some gymnastically spread legs. I sense blood beginning to thicken my cock. I make it subside by remembering what I said about sex not being solely about a cock.
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I keep doing this for half an hour or so. Jumping from feature to feature, letting each one grab at some reminiscence or stroll off to some other thought. By the end of it I'm exhausted. I step back and look at my whole face. I barely recognise the person glaring back at me. It gives me the shock of my life.
