Whenever, by chance, I catch a glimpse of myself
in the mirror, I usually scowl: a high brow merges with a receding hairline;
short, spikey, brown hair which, two weeks after having had it cut, becomes
mousy and grows tangled strands as though my pillow meant to snatch them from
me; asymmetrical, hazel eyes topped by bushy eyebrows and a one-centimetre scar
on the bottom left eyelid, caused by a concussion at the soft-hearted age of
three; a Roman nose featured by wide, maternal-grandmother-inherited nostrils; both
temples filled with dimples, which do not represent but the mark of teenage
spots; gradually bigger ears (whether I like it or not); medium-length
sideboards which lead into an everlastingly ill-shaven, four-day beard, which
covers a double chin and a square jaw; thick lips that enclose big, crooked
incisors; a rather dark complexion that suggests a resemblance to a regular
Arab’s appearance – hence purchasing some silver bracelets in Tanger turns out
to be truly economical for me.
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