My eyes are like my hair. They have this chameleonic characteristic of mixing all possible colors and change the way they look in the presence or absence of the sun.
My father complained about my eyes because he was into photography and my sensitivity to light was a major obstacle. My mother loved my eyes because they were bright, intense and alive. My doctor said he loved my eyes because of their diameter. He described some obscure quality, possibly only known by eye docs, as beautiful. More recently, a flattering someone referred to my eyes as beautiful too.
I hated my eyes for the same reason my father didn’t appreciate them. They look ugly in most of the pictures. But let me tell you that I am starting to realize that in real life my eyes are not that bad. Sometimes they are brown, sometimes they are almost green and sometimes they even show some blue.
It’s good when we finally make peace with some part of us. Ugliness in the pictures, sensitivity or changeability is no longer important. What really matters is their ability to reflect something that shines deep inside.