One very cool thing about faces is that each one is unique to the world, perhaps the universe. We continue to collect the evidence on the universe claim, but each human face is different from every other human face and not just today, but ever since the ball game started.

According to “Scientific American,” Australopithecus anamensis is the “oldest unequivocal hominin,” with a reach back of 4.2 million years. We could go back further to the first amoebas I suppose, but I don’t know if amoebas have faces. Let’s stick with hominins and 4.2 million years’ worth of faces.

Point is, nobody now, or ever before, or, sans cloning, ever will, look like you. Might come close, but nope, even identical twins are unique.

No wonder skin care products do so well. Your face is it, forever. Better moisturize while you can.

The other cool thing about human faces and why I find them so curious is that human faces talk back. As it turns out, their stories are also once in a forever. You can sit down and converse with a human face. You can ask questions. You can share a smile.

“What’s your story, my friend?” That’s called curiosity.

Don’t get me wrong, animal faces are also unique and can strike a chord in a cutesy kind of way. That’s a different thing. You can talk all day to Mitzy the cat, but I suggest your time is better spent watching the Addams Family. Be honest, Mitzy can’t answer the questions. Plus, I don’t have a cat pic.

If you buy into all of this, then allow me the liberty to scratch a few words about this Tuareg face from southern Niger circa 2009.  The Tuaregs are no joke. In large part because they live in the Sahara Desert, which is also no joke.

Sci-Fi fans, conjure up Dune and Arrakis. True, there are no Arrakis-like sand worms burrowing under the Sahara sands, but if there were, the Tuareg could breed them and sell them on the open market.

I propose humor is not the Tuareg’s strong suit, at least not to outsiders, and my friend here is no exception. I had an interpreter help me with my curiosity and I followed his cautious instructions.  This was not a good time in Niger to ask many questions, much less crack any jokes.

In the background is his millet field. Tuaregs were and are, nomads. Farming was forced on some by climate change, increased populations, and layers of civil conflict, among other reasons. My Tuareg friend does not have a happy face. I don’t imagine he likes millet farming and then we roll up in a three-vehicle caravan, a mix of strange faces with unknown intentions. I’m guessing we added to his annoyance.

The space between your eyebrows above your nose is called the glabella. My bet is that his glabella furrow and the other furrows that spread upward and under his litham-wrapped forehead are there for reasons never told; that only his face and mind will understand.

Pause.

The “litham” head wrap serves the Tuareg men as protection from the Saharan dust and temperature extremes. When moving about, the litham also serves as a facial covering to protect that inimitable visage from enemies, such as white foreigners suddenly appearing in three Land Rovers. When you encounter camel-mounted Tuaregs and their lithams, you tend to back off.

I don’t think it’s a scowl. A scowl is angry. I remember he was not angry, and we did not argue. I think he was assessing. His eyes are narrowed, focused. His mouth not a frown, but certainly not inviting me to a little tête-à-tête on a Saharan sand dune.

No, this face is simply hard. Hardened by the desert, conflict, the realities of modern society pounding away at the centuries of nomad culture and desert subsistence. This man rides camels around the desert like he’s on a cruise. I have no doubt he can still ride, despite the millet field, and he still has goats and a few cows to take on a weekend spin. That day, he had others around him, several females and maybe five children. That face tells me that if I posed a threat to his family, or goats, he would draw his sword and give me a very brusque what’s what.

Perhaps you believe this man is one of few words. You would be correct. I suggest he need not be a talkative fellow to say what he wants to say. His face says it all. He did tell me of his frustrations and his hardships. He no doubt thought we might be there to help, so he bitched a bit. I would too. Perhaps we could make a difference.

In the end, we made no difference. The violence involving the Tuareg in Niger spread far and wide during the next decade. What became of this nomad/millet farmer? Did he and his family survive? Did he join a militia or Al Qaeda? Did he throw in the litham and just saddle up and ride off into the Sahara sunset, forever?

His face is the only one. It is the only one ever. His story, imagined or true, is only his. When a face strikes you and you are curious enough to ask questions, you become involved. I would like to think he is still there among the millet, his goats and cows and camels thriving under the desert sun. Probably too much to ask.

But that’s the thing about curiosity: it leads to caring, which leads to hope and often, in the end, disappointment. It is very easy to just not be curious and save yourself all the trouble.

Who cares? Who cares about this desert cowboy and his troubles? Maybe nobody but me. Afterall, I was the only one taking the photo. There is no other photo like this one in the world, maybe the universe.

And it is here because I was curious.