I want a new face.

Not that I’m not happy with the one I have.

I don’t mind my face. I’m kinda used to it. Had it for a long time.

Oh, it’s changed somewhat over the years, as faces are apt to do. I still recognize myself when I look in the bathroom mirror in the morning.

Always had the Pesch double chin, inherited from my mother’s side.

When I was younger the double chin was less pronounced and my face was much slimmer. Smoother, too. Couldn’t grow a mustache to save my life in high school.

Not that I would look good in a mustache. Some of the other boys could grow mustaches in eighth grade and at first I thought they looked cool but then I realized that eighth-grade girls, most of them anyway, were repulsed by the thought of kissing someone with a mustache.

So I gave up trying to grow one.

My face got puffy and fat in my early 20s from way too much eating and drinking. Then it evened out a bit, some of the fat draining from my face and into my belly.

At 57, I pretty much have the same face I had when I was 30, other than a few slight crow’s feet here and there.

Mostly, I’m happy with my face.

There are times, though, when I wish I had a new one.

The technology is here. Surgeons already have done partial face transplants and are now working on a full face transplant.

It’s amazing. Eventually anyone with money will be able to buy a new face. Of course, the new face will probably come from some unfortunate dead person but, still, it’s a new face.

Brad Pitt’s face would be nice but most people tell me I’m much better looking then him so maybe he’s not such a good choice.

I’d love to walk into work one morning with a new face.

I’d act all nonchalant as I stroll to my desk, sit down and turn on the computer. I wouldn’t say a word, even as all my co-workers stared at me.

I could hear the whispers …

I’d probably choose a face a little less round. I’d certainly get rid of the double chin.

I’d like a chiseled face, square-jawed and manly. And hair. Got to have hair.

Perfect teeth would be nice, teeth that allow me to whistle like I used to. For some reason over the years my face has altered itself and I can no longer whistle as well.

Can’t spit as well, either. Used to be able to spit a nice stream from between my front teeth by pushing my tongue against the back and zitttt-ing.

Can’t do it anymore and I’m not sure if it’s my teeth or my face.

So I have to have a face that allows me to whistle and spit.

I also fantasize about having a woman’s face. Just her face.

Give me Angelina Jolie’s and watch all the stares as I walk down the street.

I would keep my body, though, just for laughs. A hairy, beer-bellied Angelina Jolie would be a hoot. All the guys would be running up to me drooling until they saw my body.

Any guys that stuck around I could punch in the face and tell them to get lost in my own voice, which wouldn’t change.

Maybe the technology would be there to allow you to change faces like you do underwear.

Every morning you wake up and paw through the drawers looking for a face that fits your mood.

Slip it on and out the door you go, intense like Robert De Niro, Robin Williams goofy or Boris Karloff scary.

For now, though, I’ll wait until technology catches up and I’ll keep the face I have, double chin and all.

Though it sure would be nice to whistle while I wait. Or spit.

(Scott DeSmit is a general assignment reporter with The Daily Iberian. He can be reached at desmitmail@yahoo.com)