I asked a doctor for guidance.
‘I want to see my face,’ I said.
‘Ask someone to take your photograph, Ms Agar,’ the doctor advised.
A photographer obliged. The portrait he took showed the back of my head.
‘Perhaps a writer could describe your face,’ the photographer suggested.
I commissioned a poet. Her sonnet extolled the back of my head.
I’ve given up hope. I’ll never see my face. As I stand in front of a mirror, though, I can at least fasten my necklace with ease.