My first pair of spectacles, acquired at the age of 10, were based partly on a lie. I’d decided that glasses were needed for My Look, aka arty and in possession of a prescription – for shortsightedness or astigmatism, either would do – and I was determined to make it a reality. So I exaggerated my problems to the optometrist, lying mildly about what I couldn’t see. I got my wish and chose my frames. They were hideous: too-big aviators in a gold finish. My father, who had let me choose them, shrugged and asked if I could see better now. Yes, I could.
In the 25 years since, I have stopped lying about my vision, and my eyes have continued their (increasingly rapid) deterioration. I added contact lenses to the mix as a result of vanity because 1) my eyeliner game levelled up, and 2) prescription sunglasses are so ugly. But I feel most like myself with the comforting weight of spectacles on my face. Laser surgery is not for me; my glasses are immovable face-furniture. And let’s forget false modesty: I have a great face for glasses. I’ve owned at least 15 since that first pair, and most of the styles – all colours, shapes and prices – have been flattering. Special mention to the 25 quid Michael-Caine-in-The-Ipcress-File pair, which were superb. But let us forget about the owlish, purple plastic ones. Eyes may be the windows to the soul, but my frames have always been an insight into my mental state, and my wallet.
I chose new frames last week, my first in two years. After weeks of deliberation, I’d gone in with a specific pair in mind (black top, gold bottoms), but chose another (black, thick-rimmed, media cliche) at the last minute. There was no specific reason for the switch. Buyer’s remorse was immediate and crushing. But I’ve been here before: I will learn to love them.
