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In Profile
I’m one of those people who doesn’t look at all like their age. Many believe that I am older than I actually am—that I’ve already paid off all my college loans (I’d settle for a degree at this point); I expect that has something to do with my behavior in certain situations. Despite not being done with a single level of higher education, I speak three languages, am learning a fourth, and have plans to study a fifth—apparently, that’s impressive and gives the illusion of age or intelligence.
But then there are probably an equal number of people who think I’m not old enough to have graduated high school. When I’m devoid of makeup, put on college grunge, and leave my hair loose, some seem to think I qualify for free tickets to a kids-only charity event. Because I’m petite and have a tiny shoe size, people think my age should be diminutive to match.
Or, at least that’s how it used to work. Who knows about now?
Barely two days ago, I chopped off those long tresses. They reached below my shoulder blades less than 72 hours before—now they don’t even hit my chin. My hair hasn’t been this short in I don’t know how long.
It’s strange; I no longer recognize my own reflection, and I’m sometimes brought up short when I catch a glance of myself in the mirror. It’s like everything has been thrown in strange releief. All my features seem strange; I can identify my dad’s eyes and cheekbones, my grandmother’s nose, my mother’s lips and chin, but I no longer see how they come together to form my own face. I no longer recognize which parts normally make me seem childish, and which make me look adult.
What will those who meet me in Melbourne see? Especially when I’m removed from the familiar context of home?
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