My face is generous. Well-fed, and as underexercised as the rest of my body
With my hair tied back, dirty-blonde tight against the scalp, I almost look bald, but for the flyaway streaks hanging down my face. Pale, from to many hours in front of a computer, instead of in the sun. To long behind a skimask, to safe from the sun. There's a silly T-shirt I have, “Keep out of direct sunlight”.
My eyes are grey green and lidded, heavy with bruise-bags from strange sleep patterns, framed by thick eyebrows, the corners coming down to the level of the corners of my eyes. My cheek bones are sharp and pronounced, and throw the tops my jowls into shadow.
My smile is slightly crooked, and yellow, my incisors ground down nubs that the genecode forgot to replace, and my mouth is framed with the dark auburn of my beard. I haven't shaved in a month or two. Cleanshaved makes me look boyish, immature, and I hate the saggy jowl lines by my chin. At odds with my old eyes. Bearded, my chin is hidden and I feel, at least, suitably mature
