TFFG: Issue Seven

This is me in kindergarten. Minus the fact that I now pay a lot of money for that rocket blond color, it would appear that I haven’t evolved much in the hair department. Not that I didn’t try over the last four decades. But no matter how many products and curling irons and flat irons and brushes I bought, within hours of doing my ‘do, my hair would return to its natural state – straight, bangs, done.

On this particular day in kindergarten however, my hair wasn’t the issue. I was happy my mom finally let me ditch the short bowl cut I’d been rocking in preschool. All was good. Until the camera guy told me to smile. And that was a no-go – I didn’t like my dimples. It was a relatively new opinion, but I felt strongly about it. The photographer told me to smile again. Being the rule follower that I was (am), I compromised with what I call a sorta smile.

I seemed to have gotten over the dimple issue by the time the first grade photo rolled around – so I guess it was just a fleeting moment in a five-year-old’s mind. The relationship with my dimples has taken a new course as I get closer and closer to 50. They no longer disappear when I’m not smiling – as my son would say, my skin is cracking in places. Enter the lotions and potions and needles and fillers in an effort to slow down the inevitable aging process. 

The thing about a smile is that we have come to count on it as a way to know if someone’s nice, friendly, happy. But what happens when we’re all wearing masks and the smile’s removed from the equation? Being in the world with everybody covered up feels weird and clinical and apocalyptic – the mask makes things visually impersonal. So now it’s about our words. It’s about saying hi, how are you, I miss you, be safe, stay healthy. The words are what let us know that there’s a smile behind the mask. Dimples and all.