These lips are thin and bitten—they bear witness of my intense concentration. This nose is small, round and broken, with friendly summer visits from freckles and burns. My eyes are green and down turned—both my greatest strength and my biggest insecurity. When I am healthy and happy my eyes say otherwise. My mother once harmlessly referred to them as “sad eyes.” I’ve never forgotten and they make me want to scream. Why waste such a lovely color on eyes that always depict despair? The lines on my forehead have been there all my life; it’s not a sign of aging, but of expressiveness. I’ve always been proud of my animated face. I’d rather be genuine than flawless. People tell me that I am lovely. I mostly believe them, except right before I go to bed at night...I often wonder how such a contrast can occur. I inherited my mother’s strong will and my father’s easy temper, but I have yet to discover where my face came from. He is tan with thick dark eyebrows and brown eyes. His nose is distinct and almost hawk-like. My mother fair, with dark red hair, and a porcelain face—free of freckles. Her nose is long and lips are full, a Molly Ringwald of sorts. And here I stand: A blonde, green-eyed, freckle faced, small nosed, girl. I’ve learned to love my face, even when I hate it, but I don’t know how to thank my parents for that.