‘Don’t judge a book by its cover’, they say, and I may or may not agree, but it’s time for you to enjoy some of my personal experiences related to my appearance.
Walking back home on my last improvised Saturday, a foreigner from the north of Europe — tall, blond, blue eyes, alcohol in veins — told me I looked clever, which, according to him, had nothing to do with my glasses. That self-esteem boost didn’t last long for I was no good for him since knowledge about politics and history rather than experimental sciences were expected from me.
The most common scene involving my image always happens on the second week of summer camps, when kids get closer to monitors. Some kid will tell me that they were terrified at the idea of having that serious-almost-boring monitor who was obviously older than the rest as their tutor. Fortunately, they seem to like me after the first undesired but enjoyable conversation.
On the other side, at the end of the summer when I used to spend my mornings in the swimming pool, they took me for a Mohamed — and I’m not being racist, he was one of the guys who were actually called Mohamed. This ethnic change issue is not rare though. When I worked in the market with my father [note for a future post], a gipsy from the shop next to ours came once and said “Your son is very handsome”, which I loved, “he seems one of us”, which was curious. I guess it’s too obvious that half of my genes are from the south of the Iberian Peninsula.
However, when I wear my hippy outfit I get some “You’re really Catalan, aren’t you?”, sometimes with a contempt look. I wonder what those people would think if they saw me next Tuesday demonstrating for Catalonia’s independence.