Faceblind

‘I think we’ve met before’.

So said the partner of a work colleague at a pub quiz, looking at me expectantly: she suggested that we had been at university together. She had been in the year below me. I stared and — nothing. ‘Mmm’, I said, noncommittally.

The next day, I asked her partner her name, and once he said, I immediately remembered who she was. I mentioned that she looked rather different now — I had never seen her wear a dress before, and she had softer curls that had once been straightened ruthlessly. He laughed and agreed. In fact, I could list a dozen things about her right now, years later, all remembered from when we were students — but I didn’t recognise her when she was sat right beside me.

So perhaps I have mild prosopagnosia. If you don’t have a distinctive haircut or colour, I will struggle to recognise you — until you speak.

I work out who you are by memorising distinctive clothes and individual features — like a characterful nose, a scar, or a strong jawline.

It isn’t quite that I don’t know what someone looks like. It’s more that when I look at the collection of features, they present as potentially belonging to someone else, who I don’t know. You could be someone else — someone with a similar style to you. I don’t see you as you until I’m sure.

Different hairstyles and dramatic haircuts throw me off, as does dramatic weight loss. A student I knew very well — a personal tutee I had taught over two modules and met countless times — dyed her hair one summer. It took a moment and a slow blink to realise it was her, when she was stood in front of me smiling.

That said, female students tend to be easier to recognise than male students — because they are more likely to have distinctive hairstyles. And people with red hair are to be treasured.

When I picture you in my head, there isn’t really a face, more an outline. However — a rattlebag of facts all about you are attached to my idea of you; and I can hear your voice inside my head.

This sounds like I’m trying to be unusual, quirky, different for different’s sake. It’s not that at all. It’s disabling and disorienting not to recognise people properly! It chills social interaction: a room of friends feels like a room of strangers. When I see someone who I have only met a couple of times, my eyes narrow until I’m confident that it’s the person I think it is. Because you could possibly be somebody else.

Lockdown was great, because names were written beneath faces on the computer screen. Students not switching on their cameras didn’t bother me quite as much as other people, so long as I could hear them speak.

You may think you look unique. Of course you are unique! But other people may have a similar style, haircut, or way of dressing. I can see your appearance, but it’s not triggering a recognition that it is you until I hear your voice.

It’s not complete. If I’m expecting to see someone in a particular context, it’s easier to recognise them. If I see someone out of context, then they could be anyone.

I remember once when very small being freaked by my mother wearing lipstick, because she looked suddenly strange. I do know who my children are, and I do still see them as mine even after a dramatic haircut: it seems that I know them well enough. But not others outside my very closest circle.

It’s often been sad. When I returned to Ireland for the first time after leaving, I didn’t always recognise neighbours and schoolfriends straightaway. My first visits back were after gaps of two and then four years. People would say triumphantly ‘you don’t know me!’ as a gotcha. I usually worked it out eventually, once I heard their voice. But no, I didn’t know you, at first.

A further aspect is that I assume others don’t recognise me either. I presume that I move through a crowd invisibly, and am always surprised when people I know less well say hello. In some ways this is a welcome unselfconsciousness, but it must seem unfriendly and a little bit off.

I have confused two current colleagues with an age gap of twenty years, simply because they have a similar hairstyle and both wear glasses. Looking at them properly, I can see they look nothing alike — and yet.

There’s no moral here. I’ve written it as an apology of sorts — or at least an explanation; and a small bid for some understanding.