It’s a mixed blessing that our ability to see up-close weakens at the same rate that our complexion starts to deteriorate. As a teenager I fixated on every pore, every spot. I was darker than most of my friends, so I envied their white skin and hairless upper lips. Now I don’t bother because I can’t see a thing without my glasses. I couldn’t tell you how wrinkly, pock-marked or hairy I am. Instead I rely on Eva, my aesthetician, to tell me. And so she does. I can now say “big mustache”, “little beard” and “old skin” in Polish.
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