I was forty-one the first time someone told me I looked like a Hollywood star.
It happened in the most unexpected place, while discussing a topic you usually keep to yourself in social circles.
On that day, I was in a GI doctor’s exam room. I had come in with diarrhea that turned out to be constipation. Those in the profession call it “overflow diarrhea.”
The earlier, incorrect assumption by all parties involved, me and my primary care doctor, bless his heart, was that I, the patient, needed to slow down my motility with antidiarrheal medicine. This only made things worse. I actually had a logjam. My PCP was clueless.
Desperate for relief, I scheduled an appointment with a gastrointestinal specialist. The nurse took my vitals and asked me a few questions. Then she left me alone for the customary wait while the doctor tended to other patients.
About fifteen or twenty minutes later, the doctor knocked on the door. He was tall, with silver hair, and a brisk, confident gait that suggested he had already solved half of the world’s digestive problems before lunch. He offered a polite nod and a smile.
“Good morning,” he said, taking a seat. He then did that little tilt of the head that doctors do when they’re sizing up the situation. “So… what brings you in today?”
I forced a smile. “Well, you know diarrhea,” I said, trying to sound breezy.
He nodded sagely. He asked questions that doctors ask. I answered them with gestures. He drew up a plan. It was quick and straightforward. I was impressed.
Then, before my visit ended, the doctor leaned in, lowering his voice just enough for theatrical effect. “Do you know who you look like?”
“Who?” I whispered, intrigued. I only knew that I looked like me, Jeremiah.
He leaned back and folded his arms. “Ryan Reynolds,” he said.
“Ryan Reynolds,” I echoed. “The actor?”
“Yeah.”
Admittedly, I had only seen one Reynolds movie—The Proposal with Sandra Bullock. Oh, he had starred in other films, like the box-office hit Deadpool and its sequel, released just a year earlier, but I hadn’t seen either of them. No need to tell the doctor that. He already seemed committed to the plan.
Why do you think that?” I asked.
I needed to know just in case I ever became bold enough to recount this conversation to another human being. It was not likely because I thought being Ryan Reynolds’ twin was a far, far stretch.
For starters, I was bald on top, and Reynolds had his famously thick head of hair. I later learned his hairdo had become a celebrity in its own right. Men across the country actually march into barbershops requesting “The Ryan.” Some men do not ask for it by name, because, of course, that would be too embarrassing. Instead, they ask for “a soft fade or taper around the sides, blended into two to three inches on top with a little layering for movement.”
Those days were long gone for me.
“It’s your eyes,” the doctor answered. “And your mannerisms. The way you gesture when you talk.”
It seemed I had underestimated the good doctor’s observational prowess. He had clearly studied the Canadian actor.
“Are you a big Reynolds fan?” I asked, amused.
“Oh, yeah,” he said excitedly.
His eyes lit up. He seemed genuinely delighted, as if fate had delivered not a man who had constipation manifesting as diarrhea, but a B-list version of a Canadian national treasure.
He went on about Reynolds—his charm, his “everyman appeal.” I sat there nodding. I could practically see the gears turning—If Procter & Gamble ever needs a Ryan Reynolds stand-in for a public service announcement about dietary fiber, I know a guy.
Finally, he snapped back to reality, as if remembering he had a day job. “Anyway,” he said with a cheerful wave of his hand, “give this plan a try.”
I walked out thinking I’m never going to hear those words again. You look like Ryan Reynolds.
I can’t explain exactly why, but that same night I fired up Google and typed in the actor’s name. I clicked the first image and began studying his face, the way an art connoisseur studies the Mona Lisa: intent, appreciative, and perhaps a little too invested.
Soon enough, I found myself conducting an anatomical comparison. Nose first. His was straight and confident; mine was… also straight, though perhaps less heroic and more “functional.”
Then the smile. He had that effortless curve that could sell Aviation Gin or win over Sandra Bullock. Mine tilted a little off-center, like it was still deciding whether to commit to the moment.
I moved on to the ears—because why not? His left one stuck out just enough to catch a breeze. Both of mine sat neatly against my head, well-behaved. One point for Jeremiah.
And then the eyes. That was where things got interesting. His were brown, warm enough to convince an audience he meant whatever the script told him to mean. Mine were hazel, dominated by tones of green. Surely setting me apart in the sea of Hollywood stars. But the shape was the surprise: the same gentle taper at the corners, the same amused lift, as though we were both looking at the world with a slightly mischievous skepticism.
The shapes of our chins matched, too—smooth, remarkable, and apparently doing more work than I’d ever given mine credit for.
Somewhere between zooming in on his jawline and analyzing my own, it dawned on me: maybe the good doctor wasn’t entirely out of his mind. Maybe, in some accidental, cosmic mix-and-match of genetics, I really did end up with a faint sprinkle of Reynolds.
I wasn’t ready to stop there. A resemblance like that demands rigor. Science, even. So I refined the query terms, the way a researcher does when the first pass yields promising but inconclusive results.
Ryan Reynolds bald.
The internet hesitated for a split second, as if to say, Are you sure? Then it obliged.
Up popped one image of Reynolds stripped of his most loyal sidekick—his hair. Without it, his face was all minimalist architecture: skull, forehead, the clean confidence of bone structure doing the heavy lifting. This, I realized, was the true test. Hair can lie. Bone cannot.
I leaned closer to the screen.
Bald Reynolds looked… exposed. Vulnerable, even. Like a Greek statue without its wig. And yet—annoyingly—he still looked like someone who could talk his way out of a speeding ticket or into a sequel.
I glanced at my own reflection, faintly visible in the monitor. Same high forehead. Same unashamed commitment to real estate above the eyebrows. My scalp had quietly expanded its territory beginning in my thirties, not retreating in defeat but advancing with purpose. Strategic. Intentional.
The forehead comparison sealed it. His was smooth and declarative, the kind that said, I’ve made peace with this. Mine was there, carrying a similar message: Resistance is futile, and frankly exhausting.
At this point, the case file was growing thick. Too thick to ignore.
I sat back in my chair and thought, if this was the neighborhood I was moving into, it wouldn’t be such a bad zip code. Sure, I didn’t have his sculpted biceps, his washboard abs, his bank account, or his ability to deliver a punchline while being punched. But I had something going here.
The doctor’s words replayed in my head, now upgraded from absurd to ambitious. The off-brand version—the one you find on the lower shelf, still perfectly functional, just missing the gloss and the movie deal.
And honestly, I could live with that.
I closed the browser and went to bed, the way you do after indulging a harmless fantasy—gratified and certain this chapter of my life had reached its conclusion.
Life doesn’t repeat compliments like that. It drops them once, then moves on. Especially not for a bald middle-aged man like me.
This was a one-off, I told myself. A conversational comet. I would never hear those words again. You look like Ryan Reynolds.
I lay there in the dark, replaying the day anyway, as if my brain hadn’t gotten the memo. The doctor’s voice. The Google images. Bald Reynolds stared back at me with smug reassurance. I reminded myself—firmly—that this was nonsense. A professional momentarily tricked by good lighting.
Tomorrow, the world would reset. I’d wake up looking exactly like myself, and no one would ever again confuse me with a Hollywood A-lister.
I was dead wrong. It took some time. About two years later, I was at work giving my spiel to new hires about the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act, HIPAA, which is spelled with two A’s, not two P’s. I told them that if they use protected health information for personal gain, they would go to prison. That talk.
As I always did at the end, I opened the floor to any burning questions.
One fellow raised his hand.
“Yes, what’s your question?”
“Do you know who you look like?”
This question sounded vaguely familiar.
“Who?” I wondered.
“Ryan Reynolds.”
The room reacted before I did. A few heads nodded. Someone let out a soft yeah.
“You really think so?”
“Yes.”
I glanced around the room. They were smiling in a we’ve already discussed this internally way.
“Well,” I said, “what makes you say that?”
“It’s your eyes,” the fellow said. “And your mannerisms. The way you gesture when you talk.”
That’s exactly what the good doctor told me. I stood there, realizing that the universe had circled back. Different building. Same question.
“Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, I’ve been told this once before,” I said.
A few of those same heads nodded as if agreeing a second time.
Apparently, this was not going away.
I drove home buoyant, the way you do after receiving information you don’t fully believe but are absolutely going to repeat. This was not something you sit on. This was something you disclosed.
That evening, I found my new wife in the kitchen preparing dinner.
“There’s something about me I haven’t told you,” I said.
Kathryn stopped chopping. Slowly. The way a person does when they are bracing for a confession or a revelation.
“Oh?” she said, looking up from the cutting board.
“Yes,” I said. “And before you react, I want you to know that I’ve heard this from two independent sources. Unrelated. Different years. Different settings.”
She laid the knife down.
“People think I look like Ryan Reynolds,” I said.
She blinked. Once. Then waited, clearly expecting more.
“That’s it,” I added. “That’s the thing.”
She studied me, assessing. My face. My posture. My overall build. She tilted her head, the way you do when evaluating a paint color you’re not ready to commit to.
“Who are these people?” she asked.
“A doctor,” I said. “And today, an entire room of new hires I threatened with prison.”
She considered this. “So people who are under stress.”
“That’s one way to possibly explain this phenomenon,” I said.
She laughed. “You don’t look like Ryan Reynolds.”
I nodded. “That was my initial opinion as well.”
“But,” she continued, “I can see… something.”
I stood a little straighter.
“Don’t do whatever that is,” she said.
I relaxed. But inside, something had shifted. Twice now. Two witnesses. At some point, coincidence begins to feel like a pattern.
I went to bed that night with the strange, comforting knowledge that while I’d never star in a blockbuster or sell gin, the universe had apparently decided to keep floating the idea that I looked like a Hollywood star.
And I was starting to think the world was right.
The next day at dinner, I said to Elijah, my youngest son, “You’ll never guess who I’ve been told I look like.”
“Who?”
“Ryan Reynolds,” I said, trying to keep a straight face.
He laughed. “Dad, that’s the most delusional thing you’ve ever—”
“Silence!” I said, waving my hands. “Twice! Two different people said it! One who is a highly respected doctor.”
“Twice? That just makes it sad,” my son shot back, still snickering.
So life went on with my usual rhythm at the hospital. In the hallways, I passed familiar faces. One afternoon, I passed the guy who had asked me “the question” during new employee orientation—he was vacuuming the entryway like a janitorial ninja, focused.
We caught each other’s eyes. I raised my hand in a half-wave, and he grinned. I grinned back. No words were necessary. He knew I knew he remembered.
It was one of those small, perfect moments: the everyday, the usual, interrupted by an inside joke, a shared memory, now softened by time. A reminder that life is threaded with these little, human connections, unnoticed by most, treasured by a few.
Months later, Elijah and I were dining at Red Robin. We were settled in our booth, studying the menu, when our waiter approached with a friendly smile.
“Hi there! My name is (I don’t remember his name), and I’ll be serving you tonight. Can I start you guys off with some drinks?”
“Water, please,” I answered. Elijah said the same.
The waiter disappeared, then returned for our order.
“What can I get you?” he asked, looking at my son.
“I’ll have the Jalapeno Heatwave.”
“And you?”
“I’ll take the Bacon Cheeseburger with a gluten-free bun and gluten-free fries.”
“Medical?”
“Yes.”
“By the way, do you know who you look like?” the waiter asked, collecting the menus.
“I might have an idea,” I said.
He grinned. “Ryan Reynolds. Totally.”
Elijah just shook his head.
“I’ve been told this before.”
“Dead ringer,” the waiter added as he walked away.
It was during that moment, in the middle of enjoying my gluten-free gourmet burger and bottomless steak fries, with my son present to witness another occasion, that I could no longer deny that I didn’t look like Ryan Reynolds. Who can really argue? After all, it says in the Bible that in the mouth of two or three witnesses shall every word be established.
Between 2019 and 2025, I’ve been told nine times that I look like Ryan Reynolds. Technically, my wife heard number nine after I finished my talk to a crowd of about 200 (a sermon at my church), from a guy sitting behind her. That one closed the case for her.
I suspect there are many more out in the world who quietly hold to this opinion after encountering me, but they are too afraid to blurt it out. Think about it. If you thought I looked like Ryan Reynolds, but had to reconcile that thought with the fact that I was bald and twenty pounds lighter, you probably wouldn’t go out on that limb. You’d be saying, “Fugettaboutit!”
Heck, I had looked at myself more than 7,800 times in the mirror since Reynold’s breakout role back in 1998, and I never saw it. All because I didn’t put in the time to study the man.
I think it takes someone who has seen five or ten or all eighty-five of Reynolds’ acting credits to make such a bold statement in public. Someone who is very confident in their conclusions. Probably well-versed in the scientific method. Anyway, I digress.
Today, Reynolds’ films have grossed over $6.6 billion worldwide, and I’m just a man going about his life with a slightly famous face he never knew he had. I’m reminded that we don’t get to choose the stories that follow us. Some arrive as complete surprises. Some repeat themselves. And some, whether we believe them or not, insist on being told.
Word Count: 2,605
Here are six “writing” takeaways from this chapter:
The Beginning
1. Start with the ordinary—then tilt it.
I don’t start with a life lesson or a dramatic declaration. I start in a GI exam room. Mundane. Specific. Disarming. The surprise comes later. Readers lean in when they recognize real life before they recognize meaning.
Try This: Begin with a scene so normal it feels safe—then let the oddity reveal itself naturally.
2. Be precise, not impressive.
Details like “overflow diarrhea” and the doctor’s mannerisms aren’t there to shock—they’re there to anchor reality. Precision builds credibility. Credibility buys patience.
Try This: Replace vague setup with concrete facts. Name the room. Name the discomfort. Name the truth.
The Middle
3. Follow the question, not the message.
The middle works because I’m not trying to prove I look like Ryan Reynolds—I’m trying to figure out whether it could possibly be true. Curiosity creates momentum.
Try This: Let your middle chase a question. Don’t answer it too soon. Let the reader chase it with you.
4. Use repetition as accumulation, not redundancy.
Each new “Ryan Reynolds” sighting adds weight, not noise. The pattern grows. Meaning emerges quietly. Repetition becomes evidence.
Try This: If something happens more than once in your life, it probably belongs in your story. Stack the moments. Don’t explain them.
The End
5. Land on recognition, not resolution.
There’s no grand conclusion—just acceptance. The story ends when I see the pattern clearly, not when life changes dramatically. That restraint feels honest.
Try This: End where understanding arrives, not where everything is wrapped up with a bow.
6. Trust the reader to do the final thinking.
The last lines don’t shout the theme. They leave space. That space is where the reader inserts their own life. That’s where memoir earns its power.
Try This: Cut the final paragraph in half. If the meaning still stands, you’ve done your job.
