From mirror after mirror

No vanity’s displayed

I’m looking for the face I had

Before the world was made.

William Butler Yeats wrote those lines. And of course, there’s the famous Zen koan: What did your face look like before your parents were born? Basically, who the hell are you?

I was thinking about this when I looked at my umpteenth photo of Joe Biden wearing his Ray-Ban aviator glasses. I buy the cheapest sunglasses I can, keep them in the car, and rarely wear them. Though eye doctors recommend them, I’m prejudiced by the old notion that they interfere with the eye’s normal adjustment to sunlight.

I also like to show my face.

Years ago, on one of the retreats hosted by the EST organization, men and women with long hair were accused of hiding behind their hair and indeed, on the last night of the retreat, professional haircutters arrived to cut the hair of hirsute shirkers.

I probably hide behind a lot of things—Zen? Getting older? Aussie (as in I can’t go out because I got to take care of the dog)?—but not hair (for most of my adult life I wore it short) and not sunglasses.

I know, sometimes you want to hide those tiny lines above the top lip and the seismic grooves around the eyes. For as long as I can remember, I’ve had blue gullies under my eyes. Forget gullies, how about blue canyons? Purple gorges of majesty? No concealer worked, no minerals or vitamins. I looked with envy at women with smooth skin flowing effortlessly down to their cheeks without falling into cracks.

Right now, I think my face is fine for exhibit. Not a model’s face, not even just my face—if it was that it would be a lot more gorgeous, you just have to take my word for it. My face keeps on being made and remade by life, which doesn’t ask for my permission to fool with it.

I look at it in the morning, always surprised by what the night’s ministrations have achieved. Did I look like this yesterday? I wonder, as I plaster a supportive smile on my face, as you would to someone gravely ill. Is there still time to put on make-up before rushing off to the Y for a yoga class? Face lotion? Eyebrow pencil? Nonfunctioning under-eye concealer? Color on lips?

“Your face is the Other for everyone else,” psychologist James Hillman reminds me. No matter how close the person is—sister, aunt, daughter, friend, lover, teacher—I am not under their skin, I’m under mine, I’m Other. When my face appears in the world, is there an acknowledgment of relationship? Is it open? Is it defenseless and vulnerable, which reflects my reality and, I think, the reality of most of us?

What’s the message to the world if I scramble it up with plastic surgery so that the skin resembles a baby’s on an unbabyish face? Is it that I regret my life and wish I could start all over? Wipe away the sleepless nights, the mistakes in judgment, and have a new, no-fault beginning? What flaws or deficiencies am I covering up under white powder and thick pink rouge on my cheeks? Who will embrace this face, stroke it or soothe it, if not for me?

Am I trying to impress the world or live in it? Forget that I’m, just one organism among multitudes, still wishing to connect, to discover more deeply that unborn face, sometimes timid, always mortal?

Why doesn’t Joe Biden show us his face? Because we’ll see its onion-skin, ghostly texture? The eyes that look out into space and can’t always focus? The lack of heft and vigor?

Why does Trump showcase his orange bird nest hair?  Does he think we’ll mistake him for a bird? A young man in disguise as a lousy golfer?

Their teeth are so white and perfect, the tan shiny. Not a hair out of place, not one earring. Can’t one of you give us a tattoo, even a little one?

Is this how you meet the world at this age? Are you telling us that life is your oyster, no bathroom havoc ever, no morning surprises in front of the mirror, no stiffness or pain upon getting up? Are you telling us you’re not losers, don’t need nobody and no one? Not susceptible to bad days (except for one bad debate night)?

How much are you covering up the lines life has given you? Can’t you see it comes at the expense of covering up character? When you don’t expose the faults that ridge your face, who are you in dialogue with? If you don’t have the courage to be seen as you are but must hide behind Ray-Bans and orange hair, who will trust you? Without honesty and vulnerability, who cares?