Palm readers are a suspicious lot. For ten dollars, they’ll tickle your hand, pique your curiosity and then push you down the splintered path in search of the Candy Castle only to find a Kale milkshake wrapped like a Snickers bar eagerly awaiting at the cliff of despair. Instead of prognosticating my future by studying the lines engraved across my hand, they’d be better suited predicting what I had for lunch simply by noticing the bbq sauce still stuck under my pinky fingernail.

Unlike the hocus-pocus of palm ticklin’ that transpires behind the neon signs that dot the highways and byways of rural America, the lines that develop on one’s face, over time, tells bushels of stories and all are mostly born in truth. Some, we’d love to share, while others are simply too painful.

The four lines on our brow might represent the passing years of harboring, feeding and transporting our little lambs hither and tither with cab fare being paid only in Goldfish and boogers they wipe on any surface their little hands can reach.

For some, our etched lines have evolved from worry, anxiousness, loneliness, addiction or anger. While others, the crimps we see, like small ripples in the champagne surf, are cultivated with smiles, laughter and the funny faces we made with our children when we, as parents, were still the cool ones.

Our lines are indistinguishable unless we know the origin from whence they came. Although each little facial tributary is different in size, shape, and depth, I believe each is unique and have carefully formed as we’ve mounted the peaks and slunked through the valleys of our lives. It’s too easy to hang the mantle of facial crinkle on gravity, old age or genetics. Years have been laid down, like fossils, that are eager to be discovered, their stories told, and for others to embrace. Erasing those lines with creams and potions is akin to tearing pages from our history books. There’s wisdom, experience, heartache and accomplishments that reside on a face only a mother could love.

I marvel and wonder with awe at the stories this gentleman might tell. He looks like he’s lived a hard life. His complexion is a bit salty. Perhaps the neon moon has taken its toll. Maybe those he loved, somewhere along the way, stopped loving him. I guess we’ll never know. Only conjecture can satisfy our sense.

This is the face I want to listen to. To read, like a history book. To discover his past, the wisdom he’s netted and delight in the real life he’s lived. Palm readers need not apply. I got this one.