A pair of specs, my first, the behtala, or forty-two’s, as they are called in my part of the world. The price tag is shocking; why, they define my face, I tell myself. A rite of passage; not insidious like the silver that demands that chestnut brown or henna red; but in your face and with a bang, now! Will the world look clearer? But not much will change. If by now, one is a softy with a sympathetic heart and a spigot of tears at will, so one will remain. Ok the need to be defensive goes, settled in your skin, this is what is, not much changes.