My father's forehead

I have a quite amicable relationship with my lines and grey hairs, we take each other as we find us, though I have the feeling it's mostly on their terms. (It's the fat and saggy bits I'm less fond of.)
Like many women, I am at once resistant and resigned to becoming more and more like my mother with the passing of the years, though ending up with the build, the double chin ,the myopia and the tetchy, judgemental attitudes and being spared the white blonde hair and the dark blue eyes seems a little unfair. The balance of family resemblance being as it is, I welcome and treasure any physical reminder of my father that I observe in myself, much as I keep an old envelope containing a Premium Bond bought for me as a child which he wrote my name on, not because I hold out much hope of my number coming up ( I haven't thought to change the address on it in 30 odd years), but because it is, I think, the only thing I have with his handwriting on it.
So the other day, when I looked in the mirror upstairs, and, in a certain light , with my hair pushed up off my face, chanced to observe three parallel, lateral lines, curving in a slightly simian fashion up over my eyebrows and down between them, such as I had, I realised, often seen on the faces of my elder brothers and sisters, it was with a pleased sense of recognition, like seeing an old friend coming towards me, that I said to myself "Ah! My father's forehead."