I believe I have fickle facial identity. A blank canvas, inherently useless.
For example, I once had a very attractive stewardess came up to me in mid-flight and start talking to me. In Greek.
Unwilling to lose that rare occasion when a girl chats me up (instead of the other way around), I smiled smoothly, even suavely, like James Bond and said, “Alas, my love, my name isn’t Papandreou Doxiadis Fotopolous. But I so wish it was.”
“ε?” she retorted, “δεν φαίνεται σαν Έλληνας μου!”
Same to you, sister!
On my travels, my origins have been mistaken for a dazzle of ethnicities. Hurled at me have been, Arab, Mediterranean, Afghani, south Caucusian, gypsy, even Irish and Welsh (I am yet to rationalise the last two.) The only ones not conferred upon me have been North European, African and Oriental (“Sorry, Dolf Lundgren, Denzel Washington and Jackie Chan. In another life, maybe.”)
But only once was I mistaken for what I really am – a TamBrahm fallen from grace.
It was an attractive Tamilian flight attendant. She said, “You remind me of my cousin. His name is Chandrasekharan.”
I warmed to her.
Until she added, “It’s a name from the south of India.”