One of the casualties of the pandemic and wearing masks is the absence of smiles. Many (me, included) are wearing masks. Walking purposefully. Hurriedly.
Without any political commentary, I can say this bugs me because I’ve always thought seeing people’s faces is so important. It helps project a mood and “read” people’s moods. It tells you whether a familiar person or even a stranger is okay — with you, or with their situation. It tells you whether they are friendly and respectful, or threatening or disrespectful.
A smile is something that you can communicate with regardless of language barriers. Everyone on earth seems to appreciate them, even though in some cultures the people at the bottom of the pecking order are encouraged to look downward.
In my mind, wearing a mask has meaning.
First, there is the bad guy “stick-up person,” robbing a bank or store. It used to be that the mask itself protected the criminal’s identity. But in the age of security cameras, it seems authorities can use other clues to find out who is behind the mask. It often happens quickly, based on unique clothing or some other clue.
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Ironically, there’s the good guy “masked man” as super hero. I grew up watching the “Lone Ranger” who never lost his mask (even as the retired actor who played him). Then there were cartoon characters like Batman and Robin seem to hide their identity and physique with facial masks.
There’s the surgeon mask. Benjamin Franklin “Hawkeye” Pierce of the M*A*S*H series. There, the mask of the surgeon was used to protect the patients from the doctor. There was lots of hand-washing in the series, which also reminds me of the situation for all Americans today.
Recently, I asked my good wife Barb (no, there’s not another) that I might enjoy having a mask that had my smile on it. Is that possible, I asked, with a smile.
Now, Barb is the ultimate “project person” and the owner of a new, heavy-duty Singer sewing machine. She has been making some masks for the family and others. With her mad creative skills, she developed numerous prototypes and adapted colors — dusky blue and masculine green.
“Sure,” she said, smiling back. “You could transfer a picture of your smile onto cloth and make a mask of that.” Soon, she was aiming her iPhone at me, cocking her head obliquely (a look I’m familiar with since the novelty has worn off).
The other day, Barb presented me with my new “Mikkel smiles” mask. (Barb thought the first attempt looked like comedian David Brenner.)
Regardless, I debuted the mask on Facebook. An array of people — friends, relatives and acquaintances of various descriptions and political stripes, from as far away as Brazil liked it. (One said it was creepy.)
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But one kind friend said Barb could “make a fortune.” I mentioned this to Barb. She flashed a smile that usually means, “Back off.” One thing marriage has taught me: Smiles don’t all mean the same thing.
