“I’m sure you do,” I smiled, “But tell me, what exactly do you think is wrong with your appearance?”
“It’s all wrong...” he said, looking at the floor, “My face... I... I can’t.., I-I won’t...”

He started crying and, though I’m ashamed to admit it, I was embarrassed. I’m a doctor and I’ve seen many people break down, but like everyone, I was used to watching him fight wars and alien invasions, not blubbering before my very eyes like a frightened child,
“...Ahem...” I coughed, “Mr Hanger? Mr Hanger, please... Please, calm down... I can only help if I fully understand the problem. That-that’s better. Now tell me, what do you mean when you say it’s ‘all wrong’?”
“My face,” he said, pulling on his cheeks as though they were made of rubber,
“This face! I.... I can’t stand it anymore. I don’t know who it belongs to, but it sure as hell isn’t mine. I’m sick of it. I want to look like me!”

I studied his face, the chiselled jaw and cheekbones, the famous ‘come-to-bed’, dark brown eyes, the strong nose and sculpted lips, the dimple in his chin,
“Why, there’s nothing wrong with your face!” I said, “Quite the opposite in fact. Indeed, there are many who’d love to look as perfect as you. Surely you know that?”
“I’m not handsome!” he groaned, pointing at his handsome face, “This isn’t handsome! Don’t you see?!”