The Book of Face

It was always going to happen - more a matter of when than if. 

Carefully edited facebook photos mean nothing when you are weaving your way through a club, having just gone 12 enthusiastic rounds with Kayne West, what's left of your make up smudged around your face and the responsible limit for alcohol long since passed. 

And then you hear your name. 

My eye/brain co-ordination not being what it should have been, my face went into default 'huh?' mode. It took me quite a few precious minutes to arrange my features back into something that did not resemble a bloodhound, and focus attention on the hottie that had called my name in the first place. 

And then I realised, the curse of Facebook had caught up with me. 

It's all well and good to have five thousand friends and for them to see you in poses that would make Tyra Banks proud, but when you are confronted with the reality of this - and you can bet your life that it will at the pinnacle of your attractiveness, sweaty and glassy eyed from too much dancing/drink/Saturday night fever - it won't be pretty. 

In my case, the lovely boy in question is a primary school classmate that I haven't set eyes on since the heady days of bowl haircuts and questionable knitted jumpers. A genuinely nice bloke, he erred on the side of caution and refrained from mentioning the disparity between Facebook me and the grim reality.  

So I am now left with two options. I can do a Harper Lee and disappear from public view, sporadically releasing a tantalising picture  in order to keep everyone interested. My social life will be somewhat curtailed with this option though. Do I want to wear a fake moustache and glasses for the rest of my life?

Or there's option two - I can remove all of the airbrushing and replace my photos with the warts 'n all version. Come clean and expect to see my friend list plummet to family members and hardy friends only. 

Time for a disguise then.