Born, we are, hairless or comparatively so. We are in a highly
incomplete state at that period of our lives. It takes a fond and
doting parent to detect evidences of an actual human aspect in us.
Only the ears and the mouth appear to be up to the plans and
specifications. There is a mouth which when opened, as it generally
is, makes the rest of the face look like a tire, and there is a pair
of ears of such generous size that only a third one is needed, round
at the back somewhere, to give us the appearance of a loving cup.
And we are smocked and hem-stitched with a million wrinkles apiece,
more or less, which partly accounts for the fact that every newborn
infant looks to be about two hundred years old. And uniformly we
have the nice red complexion of a restaurant lobster. You know that
live-broiled look?

As for our other features, they are more or less rudimentary. Of
a nose there is only what a chemist would call a trace. It seems
hard to imagine that a dinky little nubbin like that, a dimple
turned inside out, as it were, will ever develop into a regular
nose, with a capacity for freckling in the summer and catching cold
in the winter--a nose that you can sneeze through and blow with.
There are no eyebrows to speak of either, and the skull runs up to
a sharp point like a pineapple cheese. Just back of the peak is a
kind of soft, dented-in place like a Parker House roll, and if you
touch it we die. In some cases this spot remains soft throughout
life, and these persons grow up and go through railroad trains in
presidential years taking straw votes.

And, as I said before, there isn't any hair; only on the slopes of
the cheese are some very pale, faint, downy lines, which look as