It’s very nice to be a handsome man. People treat you well, and assume you possess virtues that you don’t. You get to enjoy that subtle once-over appraisal (and sometimes twice-over) from women young and old. You get away with things you shouldn’t. And there’s also that confident assurance that accompanies you everywhere. That comfortable sense that, whatever the situation and whatever the company… well, you’re just lookin’ good, mister!

It has been my privilege for years to feel quite pleased with myself, indeed. After all, if vanity is a sin, surely you’ll agree it’s a minor one. Tragically, I discovered recently that vanity can be vulnerable. I should never have tried acting.

I did it as a favor to some alleged “friends” in England. They needed an American to play a spy in a low-budget film. The actual actor slated to play the part had been arrested in Los Angeles, so would not be available. I was available, American and willing to accept Equity rates – with the stipulation that my credit be a fake name.

I hear the final cut is entirely horrible, and the picture will be released straight to discount DVD bins.

But the experience has had one lingering legacy. I now have somewhat of a complex about my face. It seems I have a “good side” and a “bad side”.

The filming was out of sequence, which I understand to be standard practice. My first scenes required me to seduce the young aide to a British cabinet minister. Seated on a hotel suite couch beside the pretty actress, I was to speak my dialogue in a low murmur (ignoring the boom microphone overhead), raise her hair gently with one hand, and kiss her ever so softly on the neck. She was to attempt to resist, sitting rigidly upright, eyes closed, before succumbing to my charms. What fun!

But the first assistant director was not happy with the first takes. A very businesslike Scotswoman, she approached from beside the camera and asked me to stand. She looked up at me, considering. Put her fingers on my chin and turned my face first to the left, then to the right, and back again. Finally, she marched back to the camera.

“Switch them ‘round!” she called to the production assistants. “His right side’s the good one.” She pronounced “good” as “guid”.

“What’s that?” I asked, as crew fluttered around me and the actress, now positioning me to her right.

The 1^st AD turned and said matter-of-factly: “Ye look better in right profile. Tha’s yer guid side.”

The rest of the shoot went fine, but I was troubled. I have a good side? What’s wrong with my left side? I thought my sides were the same!

At the break, I sidled up to the 1^st AD at the craft service table, helping myself to an excellent Ben’s cookie.

“I’m uh… may I ask what you meant about my good side?” I asked, trying manfully to smile.

She looked up from the tea she was pouring. “Everyone’s got one,” she said in her Highland burr. “Or nearly everyone. Yer lovelier from the right. Get over it.”

“I see,” I replied, noticing chocolate from the uneaten cookie melting in my hand. “Well, thank you. What, uh… just out of curiosity, what’s wrong with my left side?”

She turned to face me, amused. Took a small sip of her tea. “Yer not some silly popinjay are ye?”

“Yes,” I nodded. “Yes, I definitely am that, on occasion.”

She laughed. “Aye, well, yer in guid company on the set. It’s no’ anything big, ye understand. But ye see it in closeup. Yer left eyebrow’s a mite lower than yer right. Yer jaw’s a bit firmer from the right. Ye never knew this?”

I never knew this.

And that night in my hotel room, I spent more time than I care to admit gazing into the mirror. Turning my face side to side. Finding flaws, imperfections and asymmetries.

This is knowledge I wish I did not have. Damn it all, I’m less handsome from the left than from the right! I’m uglier from the left! That bloody film shoot left me with a leak in my over-inflated self-image.

A few weeks ago, I did a stand-up television interview with an attractive and very well-dressed business reporter in Boston. Before the cameraman rolled tape, I asked if the reporter and I could switch positions.

“Why?” she asked.

“I’m told my right side is my good side,” I explained.

She looked at me like I was an idiot.

Now saying odd things on Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/ManTalkNow