I have a thrice-broken nose. The first time I broke it was playing rugby at school at age sixteen. A few years later, in a pub next to Hammersmith Bridge, I insulted a long-haired Irishman and was set upon by his chums, who inflicted heavy damage to my face.
In 1993, walking home along Sloane Street after a night drinking in Chelsea with an ex-girlfriend and her extremely attractive uni friends, I decided to carry one of the girls home, piggy-back style, and when she climbed upon me it pitched me face-forward on to the pavement. The impact of face on concrete was quite audible. Blood stained my Boden shirt.
Soon after I consulted a plastic surgeon who explained that in order to straighten my crooked nose, he would have to use a large hammer to knock it back into place. I declined.
I learned to live with it. In fact, in some ways it has proved to be an asset. True, I can not breathe out of the right side and my sense of smell is imperfect. But it gives my face a 'hard,' craggy look. It adds a flaw, a bit of character, to an otherwise typically masculine visage. It is a conversation piece and presents an opportunity to tell a story. Finally, women seem to like it. On more than one occasion, when I am out drinking or having dinner with pals, women have used it as an excuse to start a conversation. One drunk blonde stroked it with tears in her eyes, telling me it reminded her of her father, an ex-boxer.
If we meet, you will notice my broken nose. Long and narrow, it is aquiline in a Roman way; you might even call it aggressive. It stands out in its imperfections. But, it fits my face and my large physique. Long ago I made my peace with it.