You Can Always Tell By The Hands

I’ve been thinking a lot about the tight-lipped shame women carry over our aging. One particular remark about my aging body, that I seem to obsess over the most, was said to me a few years back, by one of my closest friends, a man. “Felicia, the way to truly tell a woman’s age is to look at her hands.” I laughed when he told me, and not so playfully slugged him in the arm. But now I find that I look at my hands all the time and see that they do indeed show my age.

I’ve read about and actually have friends who have tried many techniques to make their hands look younger. From injections to collapse veins, to even more injections to make them appear fuller and freshier. Here’s the part that gets tricky for me. I, like many others over the age of 35 have done minor things to my mug, in order to look a little more rested. But when it comes to my hands I refuse to do diddly-squat. Why? Because I f*cking love my hands even though they are scarred. Yup, my hands and forearms have scars and loss of pigment, where I was bit-up by swarms of mosquitoes after a particularly wet and rainy year, when my mother and myself lived in government housing. We had no air conditioner and no screens, so windows were left open for any hint of a breeze, and for us to be feasted upon.

My mother would always get mad at me for scratching at the bites, “That’ll give you scars for the rest of your life!” But that’s not much of a deterrent when you have pert near a hundred bites on you, and the impulse control of a twelve year old. But now I look at the scars on my hands and arms, and all I see is my mom. Her sitting in a recliner, and me laying on the living room floor watching TV, playing with naked and tattered dolls. Probably making Ken and Barbie scissor or something equally as filthy. My mother never complained about my curiosity with sex, but would always scream bloody murder at me, should one hand even bring itself anywhere near the itching other. Now those scars connect me to her no matter where I’m at. Whenever I feel lost in the world, I look down at my hands and arms, and she is automatically near.

In full disclosure, my hands are also veiny, like winding little rivers on a map. But all I see, are the hours upon hours of time I’ve spent hauling and holding camera gear all across the world, in order to capture a little bit of heart on people’s faces. I have two small twin callouses at the base of each my pinkies, oddly there from driving. First formed long ago when I drove myself away and across the country from a man who was violent to me when I was 18, to all the gigs I’ve driven to in order to make people laugh, to the numerous places I hustle my kids to - so that one day they will have a thirst for adventure just like myself.

I also think about all the kindnesses my hands have given to others. The back massages and scratches I’ve given to both of my children, when they sneak into my bed at midnight after a bitter emotional day. The gentle brush with the back of my fingers against a friend’s cheek, during a moment of sadness over a fella. The precision they are capable of when painting or helping a friend drain an angry wound after cancer surgery. And finally, the way I’m fond of gently placing it over a lover’s heart while taking in their breath.

My hands might not be the smoothest, prettiest or youngest - but they still are the very best part of me.

As God as my witness, the above photo will be the last time I ever blur out my hands and arms on my Instagram feed. 

sketch art by Trevor B