#20
Doc Ock
It’s while staring in the mirror this morning, drying my hair and singing Try A Little Tenderness in a piercing countertenor, that I’m struck by how much I really do resemble Alfred Molina. It’s in the fine details; the thin nose in the middle of a wide, oval face, the deposits of fat under the eyes and cheeks, the thick Mediterranean eyebrows, the hair when it’s parted in the centre and allowed to flop to the sides. It’s often pointed out to me, particularly when I’m being observed from below like when I’m standing onstage, and I’m never sure how to take it. He is by no means an attractive man (not that I’m under any illusions that I am either), but he’s not outrageously hideous enough for me to become insulted. At any rate, it makes staring at myself in the mirror far less tolerable.
My chin is an unusual sight to behold at the moment. I seem to have adopted a summer habit, now that I am on study leave, of leaving my half-hearted attempt at facial hair unshaven. It is not impressive. Planted in my lower face seemingly at random are unusually long, solitary black hairs, some of them surrounded by a fine fluff, and they make my chin look like a shrubbery left in the middle of a barren desert for three weeks. For the purposes of dignity, however, I do still shave my upper lip, as having an almost-moustache is a pain I will not subject myself to.
