When I see a woman whose visage is rearranged so that she resembles a Cubist painting, my judge-y thoughts begin: I’m not staring because you look good, I’m staring because you look like a freak.
Another persistent fear is this: What if you start altering your face—a tweak here, a jab there—and are eventually unable to tell that you are becoming unrecognizable? When I see a woman whose visage is rearranged so that she resembles a Cubist painting, my judge-y thoughts begin: I’m not staring because you look good, I’m staring because you look like a freak. But I must also admit to feeling, on some level, a certain recognition: I know why you wanted to change your face. I know what it’s like to hate your reflection some mornings. I’ve been there. I am there now.