Anna would never be famous because of her face. It was a dull face, an insipid face, a face that one could walk past on the street and never think twice about again. She wasn't ugly, she wasn't disfigured in any way - indeed, that would have added interest to her characterless features. She just was.
Her eyes were a particularly faded shade of grey, barely there in some lights, which in the face of another would have been interesting, adding a depth of well-worn character, but in Anna's case just added to the washed out feeling that one got when one looked at her. There was no sparkle of excitement, or hint of emotion. If eyes were indeed the windows to the soul, then the blinds were down and the shutters were up. Her hair was mousy grey-brown, not one colour nor yet the other. There were no lifting blonde highlights, and the way that she had it always tied back in a low ponytail at the nape of her neck meant that it had no movement either, and thus lost any chance of enlivening her looks as it lay down her back, sticking to her mustard coloured polyester wool jumper. Her skin was sallow and almost looked stale, as though she had been left out overnight and stiffened slightly, in the way of day old bread. Even her mouth and nose were unremarkable, no pert turned up nose nor ruby red lips that would brighten a suitors day.
All in all, she was a humdrum face that covered an uninspiring brain and sat atop a stodgy body. Even the way that she walked was boring. It was not brisk and efficient or anything that could have been considered laudable, and it wasn't slouchy, she didn't drag her feet along the pavement. There wasn't a limp, or a skip, or anything about her gait that made her stand out to anyone, at all.
As blank canvases went, thought George, she was perfect.