Age nine, probably wearing tight pink cycling shorts and a Spice Girls tee, I strolled alongside mum in Marks & Spencer, looking for some potatoes. I wasn’t distracted at all by the lovely chocolates or the old school version of Percy Pigs, instead I was busy making my skin raw, after bringing a rubber along in an attempt to wipe off all my freckles by the time we arrived back home. As a child, I hated them.
I want to now be able to say that I love them. That I find them empowering and really attractive. But to be perfectly honest, I cover them up everyday with foundation, fake tan, powder and bronzer. If I had a few freckles sprinkled across my nose and cheeks, then fine. But I feel that I am more splattered than sprinkled with them, making my day to day beauty regime also a way in which to disguise these little genetic defects which live upon my face. And arms. And legs. And back. And tummy. And toes.
I do find one thing about freckles inrigueing: freckles are memories. They are the times spent travelling in Mexico, family holidays to Europe, a sunny afternoon in the park after school, a week spent at the beach last term; the list is endless. All these happy memories are mapped out for me on my body, for everyone to see. Although a deep tan is desired, freckles actually last longer on the skin. They’re signs of good times spent in the sun in a more intimate form than quickly fading bikini lines or that post holiday hang over.
I think its time for me to start to embrace The Freckle, just as the leapord has embraced his spots.