on beauty

I have a sharp chin.

That may seem like an effortless statement to type. It may seem a trivial thing to announce.

It’s not.

It’s taken me 23 years to get that out. Siblings mean no harm but can cause great complexes that take years to unearth… that is, once we learn how to shovel.

I have a sharp chin. It’s pronounced. It stands out. Demands attention. It gives my face a diamond shape.

Hidden underneath the flesh of it is a Michael-Jackson-like bone structure, a clef that is a family trait.

But it’s very hidden.

“Almost like Allah shaped it, then changed his mind at the last minute and decided to get a bit more creative,” said daddy regularly to make me feel better about it.

It juts out when I smile.

It quivers when I cry.

It would be what an artist starts with if sketching a caricature of me, followed immediately by my forehead.

It’s my father’s mother’s chin.

Kinda.

But more so, it’s mine.

And I finally learned how to own it.

And the way it gets sharper when I hold my head high.

And, finally, vice versa.