There’s a girl sitting opposite you. She is wearing a pretty dress, tights and boots. Her hair has been straightened and clipped back and she has full make-up on. A book is in her hand and as she turns the page, she smiles.
What is she reading? you think to yourself. A romance? A love story where the hero has just won the love of his life and they live happily ever after?
Or a time-travelling soldier, who has just let lose a string of expletives having seen dinosaurs and is now locked in a hand-to-hand bloody and violent fight to survive?
I make the effort when I go to uni. I’m not going to deny it; I enjoy playing around with make-up and it leaves me feeling more confident as I head out.
But in general, I am not what you would consider a girly-girl. Especially not when it comes to the clichés of books and films and what I should like.
The other week, a gentleman in my train carriage gave me a strange look. I couldn’t decipher it then and I still can’t now. But it made me wonder: what does he see when he looks at me? Some girl trying too hard to look grown up (just for the record, I’m 24 but look about 17!)? Someone who spends the whole time worrying about her hair and nails?
Or someone who deals with anxiety, fought depression and is trying to make something of her life, doing whatever it takes in order to feel an ounce of confidence when she heads out for the day?
What I could decipher from that look, however, was there was no way he would be able to guess what I was reading on my kindle. Have you ever looked across at someone reading and wondered what book captivated their interest? Perhaps you even tried to guess by their looks, the time of day and their destination.
A few months ago, my father turned his nose up when I offered my bookshelf when he was looking for something to read. I then proceeded to dump five books on him in a genre I knew he loved. One he had read; the other four he devoured. Since then, I have given him another three books and helped him buy a fourth from Amazon when I realised he would like it.
Even he, the person who should actually know me, made assumptions about what was on my bookshelf. I certainly proved him wrong!
I guess the point of this rambling post (yes, there is one!), is literally `don’t judge a book by its cover`. Or, rather, `don’t judge a person on appearances but what is in their heart`. Whether it is their taste in literature or their attitude to life, you can’t judge by what you see alone.
That man’s look bugged me enough that I felt the need to write this post! I hope I haven’t bored anyone. Have you got any thoughts/opinions?