My mother once told me, “You’re not going to be on the front of any magazine covers, but you could pass in a crowd. That’s about as good as it gets.”
Thanks, Mom.
I was maybe ten at the time, folded into the uncomfortable embrace of a faux-leather chair in some beige hospital room while she sat nearby, catching an IV drip like it was her job. Cancer had a way of making her sharp. Sharper than usual. I remember adjusting the coke-bottle lenses perched on my nose like they were a curse from a Greek tragedy. Or a comedy, depending on the lighting. She wasn’t being cruel — just honest. Honest in the way only dying people and single mothers know how to be. She didn’t believe in sugarcoating the world. She believed in surviving it. Or castigating it when it failed to meet her expectations.
And maybe she was right. I’ve never been handsome. Not in the kind of way that gets you out of parking tickets or onto the cover of GQ. I’m the kind of face you forget as soon as I leave the room. You don’t remember my jawline — you remember my fuck-ups. I’m not photogenic, but my mistakes always seem to find the spotlight… or the back seat of a cop car on a muggy summer night.
Growing up, I thought glasses were the ultimate betrayal. Thick-rimmed proof that I wasn’t that guy. You know the one — square-jawed, scruff in all the right places, eyes that could undress you and your trauma in one blink. I wanted to be him. Instead, I was the kid squinting through smudged lenses and prescription updates, hoping that charm could make up the difference.
Eventually, I leaned into it. I wore button-downs like armor. Let my hair grow until it looked like I might write something worth reading. Quoted Bukowski in the wrong bars to the wrong people. Told myself I was “worldly” or “interesting” — which is just what we say when we can’t bring ourselves to admit we’re not hot.
My older sibling once accused me of narcissism because I posted selfies online. Forgetting, conveniently, that for a lot of years I was alone in my company. I didn’t post because I thought I was something. I posted because I hoped someone would tell me I was. That’s not narcissism — that’s insecurity dressed up in a 21st-century social ritual. And anyway, aren’t we all just hoping someone sees us and doesn’t flinch?
The thing about handsomeness is it’s a lottery ticket. You either pull the right numbers or you don’t. And if you don’t, you learn to survive on scraps — wit, timing, empathy, damaged charm. You make people laugh. You write books. You tell stories that get stuck in the teeth of people’s minds because they felt something, even if they don’t remember your name.
Handsome fades. So does charming. So does everything, really. The older I get, the more I realize we’re all just dressing up our insecurity and calling it personality.
If I’m not handsome, at least I’m observant.
But sometimes — sometimes — a woman looks at you like you’re the only man in the room. And not because of your cheekbones, but because you see her too. Because in all the mess and mayhem and mediocrity, you made her feel something. You told the truth, and it was ugly, and broken, and hers.
That’s better than handsome.
Hell, maybe that is handsome. In a way.
Or maybe it’s just another lie I tell myself so I can walk out the front door without shame dragging me back inside by the collar.
In any case, I still haven’t graced the covers of any magazine spreads. I’m still just trying to pass in a crowd.
And as my mum once said — maybe that’s about as good as it gets.
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