Prosopagnosia

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Berta is fifteen years old. A few months ago, she bought clippers, which she used to shave off practically all her hair. She says that this way, it’s easier to imagine the skull hidden beneath her stubbly scalp. It’s the only part of her body that she exhibits with anything like pleasure, and not exactly because she likes it, or is proud of it. She feels a deep sense of aversion for her whole body, in fact, which is why she hides it under baggy jeans and woollen jumpers. It’s difficult to imagine a teenage body under there.

Sometimes she locks herself in the bathroom and stares fixedly at her own reflection in the mirror. This is one of the main ways she spends her time. Despite how this may seem, she doesn’t do it in order to recognise herself, nor is she poring over every inch of her skin in search of some clue that would reveal bodily signs of life. Quite the opposite. She stands in front of the mirror, forcing herself not to blink until her eyes see only an image in which it is impossible to discern the necessary harmony or balance to compose a face.

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