...and my right eyebrow is wobbly, there's a faint scar on my nose where I fell off a swing when I was about five, and the rest of my face is slowly, inexorably, travelling south.
Of course, I have known all this for some time (the ear, my mother assured me, was because I used to stick my hand behind it when I was tired. I think she was just being kind), and most of the time none of it bothers me. I just don't look. But I've spent the afternoon at the hairdresser's, compelled to look at myself in the mirror for two hour (I was having my highlights done. You thought it was natural? How kind. But it isn't. Hasn't been for years. In fact, for so long that I've no longer any idea what colour my hair is supposed to be).
This is the downside of the hairdresser's; the having to look at myself. I had a book, of course, but Colin (hairdresser) and I talk, so it would be rude to read all the time. We always end up talking about sex - I've no idea why - but we also always discuss cars (Colin loves cars. I do not) and what we would do if we won the lottery (Colin: buy fast cars and yachts. Me: dither).
(Actually, Colin did win a prize in the last Euromillions draw. £2.90. But he's promised to go on cutting my hair.)