My Best Face
Entry by: rclayr
12th June 2015
My Best Face
My best face is the one I see from behind my own eyes.
It is youthful, handsome, smart, eager, pleasant and open.
It is good, a bright and welcoming aspect that invites friendship, inspires trust, exudes
confidence, eschews arrogance, suggests a puckish charm.
It can shape itself to irony, humor, sympathy, compassion, and love.
It is nothing like my real face, but it is the face I think I present to the world.
It is, I like to think, how others see me.
It is the face I see when I see.
My best face is the face I always show parents, ministers, teachers, bosses, policemen.
It is full of innocence, of eagerness, or need.
It is a counterfeit face, because it is better to be obtuse than clear, better to be oblique
than direct.
It is an obsequious face, because it is there to keep me out of trouble, away
from delicate questions, to make me one of the crowd, even when I am the only
one there. It keeps me from being singled out, punished, upbraided, scolded, told things I don’t want to hear.
It is a dishonest face, and it is meant to be. I think they know that.
My best face is face I show people I don’t like but marginally tolerate.
It is disapproving, despairing, deprecating, condescending, egotistical, judgmental.
It requires coordination. Eyes, lips, even the angle of my countenance
determine the degree of dislike, distaste, disapproval I want to show.
It is not challenging or provocative face. It is not insulting. It doesn’t seek adversity. It
shows self-confidence, experience, wisdom, even when such is unwarranted.
It can cause hurt, harm, even to me. It must be displayed judiciously.
It is not a face I enjoy showing.
My best face is the face I use when I am bored.
It is for family gatherings, receptions, gallery shows, committee meetings,
lectures, funerals and weddings, boring companions, computer demonstrations,
sales prattle, political speeches, listening to ancestry rehearsals or the plots of dreams,
sitting through opera and musical comedies.
It provides a dispassionate expression that shows I am attentive, interested, even involved
and considering, although I may really be miles—even planets—away.
It is unrevealing, concealing, blank, inscrutable, a stone face, a sphinx, closed, locked.
It requires maintenance and vigilance, so that the disapproving face doesn’t emerge,
particularly in front of people I am wary of or want to impress.
It makes me look as if I care.
Depending on the occasion, it might add a rictus, or a slight scowl, but never a sardonic
sneer or ironic smirk.
It’s a dead face. It is the face I will wear in my coffin.
My best face is my angry face.
It is involuntary, emerging without warning.
It is ugly, snarling and dogged, aggressive, threatening. It is red with pressure, sweat-
bathed with anxiety, shaking with rage, violent, bellicose, loud.
It is not controlled, and it is not deliberate. It cannot be modified or molded.
It can wound, and it can invite wounds.
It is vulnerable, for it demands response, sometimes dangerous, sometimes embarrassing.
It requires conscious suppression.
It is a face I usually regret.
My best face is the face I show my adult children.
It is indifferent to excesses, to mistakes, often in the making, to criticisms, often needed,
but always unwanted.
It can show and understanding and approval, acceptance and forgiveness.
It hides true thoughts behind a façade of gratified endurance, and annoyance behind a
veil of benign toleration.
It shows irony, but it’s subtle, wit, but it’s tactful, care, but it’s careful.
It is a father’s face.
My best face is the one that I show to photographers.
It has a broad smile or a serious expression, whatever is appropriate.
It is a posed face, fake and chiseled, a veneer, an actor’s face.
It wants to be remembered, and it wants to be remembered. It wants to be liked but not
too much and to be respected more than it deserves.
It was the same when I was two, or maybe four, when I first learned to pose.
It is, and it remains, a face for people I don’t know and will never meet.
It is not my face, even though it looks exactly like me.
It is my face, because it looks exactly like me.
My best face is my weary face.
It is involuntary, also, and emerges when I am tired, exhausted, finished, spent.
It can show satisfaction or frustration, fulfillment or inadequacy, triumph or defeat.
It can sometimes indicate surrender or retreat, or it might signal respite and renewal in
progress.
It can be determined or committed, or it can be resigned and stoic but is always tired.
It changes as I age, emerges sooner, remains longer.
My best face is the one I use for seduction.
It can be used on a romantic conquest, or at least on a prospective one, or even on a
fantasy.
It shows eyes that would look good over drinks or dinner, a smile that would be welcome
over breakfast.
It is inspired by smoky train platforms and foggy airport tarmacs, by uniforms in the rain
and white dinner-jackets in the tropics, by nightclub dance floors and waiters in livery, by English gardens and deserts of the American Southwest.
It displays warmth, trust, respect, a touch of affection, maybe even love, and maybe just a
shade of lust, just enough to stimulate.
It never works.
My best face is a supplicating face.
It is shown to store salespeople, restaurant hostesses, hotel clerks, mechanics,
craftsmen, even total strangers.
It asks for help. It often demands unreasonable accommodation or extraordinary
assistance or service.
It suggests desperation, frustration, sorrow and catastrophe if a request is denied.
It recommends action. It solicits response. It suggests that a demand, a need, a mere
favor, awkward to request, should be offered anyway.
It is a pitiable face, a pained face, a face that wants to be felt and shared and complied
with.
It is the face of last extremity.
My best face is the face I see in mirrors.
It is lined and old and actual. It is unvarnished and weathered and gray, like antique
wood or faded metal.
It is my face. It is not studied or transformed or adapted. It’s relaxed. It has bags and
wrinkles, pock marks and stray hairs growing where hair shouldn’t grow.
It has blemishes, old scars, new scratches, and is no longer smooth and elastic. It is
floppy and soft, discolored and uneven, distorted by time, worn by failure.
It is not a face I know or want to know. It has the patina of age and the crevasses of life.
It is always startling, always surprising, never gratifying.
It is too real.
My best face is the face I show my wife.
It is the same face I see in the mirror. It shows all my emotions, which she can read as
clearly as a child’s cipher.
It is genuine. It is love. It is need. It is supplication. It is romance. It is never indifferent,
though, or impassive, or intolerant or disinterested.
It is the same face I showed my young children, my mother and father, but now only her.
It might be happy. It might be sad. It might be annoyed or even angry. But it will
always be honest. And she loves me for it, in spite of all.
It is, because of that, because of my surety of that, I think, the face I will show God.
My best face is the one I see from behind my own eyes.
It is youthful, handsome, smart, eager, pleasant and open.
It is good, a bright and welcoming aspect that invites friendship, inspires trust, exudes
confidence, eschews arrogance, suggests a puckish charm.
It can shape itself to irony, humor, sympathy, compassion, and love.
It is nothing like my real face, but it is the face I think I present to the world.
It is, I like to think, how others see me.
It is the face I see when I see.
My best face is the face I always show parents, ministers, teachers, bosses, policemen.
It is full of innocence, of eagerness, or need.
It is a counterfeit face, because it is better to be obtuse than clear, better to be oblique
than direct.
It is an obsequious face, because it is there to keep me out of trouble, away
from delicate questions, to make me one of the crowd, even when I am the only
one there. It keeps me from being singled out, punished, upbraided, scolded, told things I don’t want to hear.
It is a dishonest face, and it is meant to be. I think they know that.
My best face is face I show people I don’t like but marginally tolerate.
It is disapproving, despairing, deprecating, condescending, egotistical, judgmental.
It requires coordination. Eyes, lips, even the angle of my countenance
determine the degree of dislike, distaste, disapproval I want to show.
It is not challenging or provocative face. It is not insulting. It doesn’t seek adversity. It
shows self-confidence, experience, wisdom, even when such is unwarranted.
It can cause hurt, harm, even to me. It must be displayed judiciously.
It is not a face I enjoy showing.
My best face is the face I use when I am bored.
It is for family gatherings, receptions, gallery shows, committee meetings,
lectures, funerals and weddings, boring companions, computer demonstrations,
sales prattle, political speeches, listening to ancestry rehearsals or the plots of dreams,
sitting through opera and musical comedies.
It provides a dispassionate expression that shows I am attentive, interested, even involved
and considering, although I may really be miles—even planets—away.
It is unrevealing, concealing, blank, inscrutable, a stone face, a sphinx, closed, locked.
It requires maintenance and vigilance, so that the disapproving face doesn’t emerge,
particularly in front of people I am wary of or want to impress.
It makes me look as if I care.
Depending on the occasion, it might add a rictus, or a slight scowl, but never a sardonic
sneer or ironic smirk.
It’s a dead face. It is the face I will wear in my coffin.
My best face is my angry face.
It is involuntary, emerging without warning.
It is ugly, snarling and dogged, aggressive, threatening. It is red with pressure, sweat-
bathed with anxiety, shaking with rage, violent, bellicose, loud.
It is not controlled, and it is not deliberate. It cannot be modified or molded.
It can wound, and it can invite wounds.
It is vulnerable, for it demands response, sometimes dangerous, sometimes embarrassing.
It requires conscious suppression.
It is a face I usually regret.
My best face is the face I show my adult children.
It is indifferent to excesses, to mistakes, often in the making, to criticisms, often needed,
but always unwanted.
It can show and understanding and approval, acceptance and forgiveness.
It hides true thoughts behind a façade of gratified endurance, and annoyance behind a
veil of benign toleration.
It shows irony, but it’s subtle, wit, but it’s tactful, care, but it’s careful.
It is a father’s face.
My best face is the one that I show to photographers.
It has a broad smile or a serious expression, whatever is appropriate.
It is a posed face, fake and chiseled, a veneer, an actor’s face.
It wants to be remembered, and it wants to be remembered. It wants to be liked but not
too much and to be respected more than it deserves.
It was the same when I was two, or maybe four, when I first learned to pose.
It is, and it remains, a face for people I don’t know and will never meet.
It is not my face, even though it looks exactly like me.
It is my face, because it looks exactly like me.
My best face is my weary face.
It is involuntary, also, and emerges when I am tired, exhausted, finished, spent.
It can show satisfaction or frustration, fulfillment or inadequacy, triumph or defeat.
It can sometimes indicate surrender or retreat, or it might signal respite and renewal in
progress.
It can be determined or committed, or it can be resigned and stoic but is always tired.
It changes as I age, emerges sooner, remains longer.
My best face is the one I use for seduction.
It can be used on a romantic conquest, or at least on a prospective one, or even on a
fantasy.
It shows eyes that would look good over drinks or dinner, a smile that would be welcome
over breakfast.
It is inspired by smoky train platforms and foggy airport tarmacs, by uniforms in the rain
and white dinner-jackets in the tropics, by nightclub dance floors and waiters in livery, by English gardens and deserts of the American Southwest.
It displays warmth, trust, respect, a touch of affection, maybe even love, and maybe just a
shade of lust, just enough to stimulate.
It never works.
My best face is a supplicating face.
It is shown to store salespeople, restaurant hostesses, hotel clerks, mechanics,
craftsmen, even total strangers.
It asks for help. It often demands unreasonable accommodation or extraordinary
assistance or service.
It suggests desperation, frustration, sorrow and catastrophe if a request is denied.
It recommends action. It solicits response. It suggests that a demand, a need, a mere
favor, awkward to request, should be offered anyway.
It is a pitiable face, a pained face, a face that wants to be felt and shared and complied
with.
It is the face of last extremity.
My best face is the face I see in mirrors.
It is lined and old and actual. It is unvarnished and weathered and gray, like antique
wood or faded metal.
It is my face. It is not studied or transformed or adapted. It’s relaxed. It has bags and
wrinkles, pock marks and stray hairs growing where hair shouldn’t grow.
It has blemishes, old scars, new scratches, and is no longer smooth and elastic. It is
floppy and soft, discolored and uneven, distorted by time, worn by failure.
It is not a face I know or want to know. It has the patina of age and the crevasses of life.
It is always startling, always surprising, never gratifying.
It is too real.
My best face is the face I show my wife.
It is the same face I see in the mirror. It shows all my emotions, which she can read as
clearly as a child’s cipher.
It is genuine. It is love. It is need. It is supplication. It is romance. It is never indifferent,
though, or impassive, or intolerant or disinterested.
It is the same face I showed my young children, my mother and father, but now only her.
It might be happy. It might be sad. It might be annoyed or even angry. But it will
always be honest. And she loves me for it, in spite of all.
It is, because of that, because of my surety of that, I think, the face I will show God.
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