‘The greatest trick the dimple ever pulled was convincing the world that it exists’

In 1973, as my mother pushed my pram around Tel Aviv, women would stop her in the street to marvel at my beauty and count my chins. On reaching my dimple they would exclaim “Kirk Douglas”, which is just a delight in an Israeli accent. Reportedly I would respond with my friendliest greeting – a suddenly raised arm. The women would look at my blonde mother dubiously, wondering if she had trained me to do it.

We emigrated to Britain the following year. Whether or not this was due to my unfortunate gesture I was never told. I have since dropped the salute but retain the dimple – though I keep it behind a beard to forestall further diplomatic incidents.

For where dimples lead, controversy follows. In January cosmetics brand Avon withdrew an advert that read: “Dimples are cute on your face (not on your thighs)” after actress Jameela Jamil tweeted: “And yet EVERYONE has dimples on their thighs, I do, you do, and the CLOWNS at @Avon_UK certainly do.”

Clowns! Brutal conflict like this is always harrowing and I apologise to those of a nervous disposition who may be reading this before a fortifying breakfast. Sometimes, though, we must look at the difficult sides of life and not flinch lest we soften – and softened embolden tyranny’s malign ambition.

Yes, dimples have created bitterness between Avon and Jamil and yet, brilliantly, they have done this without even so much as existing. For what is “dimple” but the name we give to an absence, like a hole or a pocket. There is no dimple, only less chin, just as there is no pocket, only concave trouser.

A hole by contrast has topological reality: the hole in the letter “O” for example, or the a-hole. But a dimple? Why, your dimple is your chin, your chin that undulates – fear not such undulations, seeking comfort in the myth of the dimple. Negative space is a cognitive trick, the whole thing’s an absolute bloody farce.

So much for topology. Even in biology, the dimple’s role in Nature’s grand design is unclear. Granted, they enable limbo-dancers to store a small amount of water or a pet lentil but apart from those essential functions they have mysterious utility. Are they to facilitate tessellation while kissing, coyly accommodating the prognathous chin of the lover. Are they part-way along the evolution of a deeper recess in which one might poke and secure the corner of a tea towel. In short, what are they up to?

Wikipedia has been scant help with my dimple research. To be fair, though, its restraint is not without poetry. Treat yourself to the Japonist simplicity of its picture captions: “Kirk Douglas has a chin dimple” and “Jasper Liu has cheek dimples” – perhaps there is an early years picture book here? And once the science kicks in, the poetry really soars:

Dimples may be caused by variations in the structure
Of the facial muscle known as zygomaticus major.
Specifically, the presence of a double or bifid
Zygomaticus major muscle may explain
The formation of cheek dimples.

You may wish your dimpled child to commit this stanza to heart, instilling in their breast an appreciation of their proud lineage, their chineage if you will. Sadly there is no mention of thigh dimples and this speaks to the very marginalisation against which Jamil rails.

open image in gallery

These days, as I say, my chin dimple, displayed so fetchingly in infancy, lurks behind a beard. In fact you have to ask yourself how many dimples you pass every day, masked by facial thatch. Perhaps you are even intimate with one of those plushy neo-lumberjacks but don’t even know how many lentils you could be storing in his face.

The centenarian actor Kirk Douglas stored lentils in his dimple as part of his beauty routine and for emotional wellbeing. In fact, he credits his longevity – immortality at time of going to press – to the support and companionship of four lentils working shifts, all staunchly prepared to answer to the name Spartacus.

Who can hear of this and not incline sympathetically towards the dimple, for its role in the sustenance of a Hollywood giant, breaker of blacklists? And yet how can we square this with its nefarious role in Avongate? Has it become corrupted by proximity to power, like Boris or Saruman? The dimple may be using the beard for concealment, you may fret, biding its time until the Manchurian moment when the razor comes, when its true purpose will be revealed and we will understand our subservient role in the colony.

Where will you be on that day when the Queen Dimple rises, horrifically red, her furious shriek echoing across the parklands: “Bow down before me, pathetic dimpletons!” Will you yield or seem to yield, pandering to her shrill demands while quietly fomenting resistance in ill-lit back rooms? Probably not but you can see how Mr Icke builds up a head of steam once he’s had his four coffees.

Now my beard is greying and connotes ebbing youth. Perhaps in the next chapter of a man’s vanity I will remove it. And perhaps this is the dimple’s plan all along. A hoo. A hoo ha ha. A HOOO HAA HAA HAA HAA HAA HA!