I would stare and stare, puzzling over who I was, and what the relationship was between who I thought I was and who I really was and the face that was staring back at me. I knew I wasn’t my face. If something terrible happened to me, like a fireworks accident, if I lost my face and spent my life bound in bandages like a mummy in a scary film, I’d still be me, wouldn’t I? I never found an answer, not one that satisfied me. But I kept asking. I suppose I still am.
