My late father was a woodworker, he was in a major accident where he took most of the trauma to the skull/face.
When I first went into see him after his major reconstruction surgery, I didn’t recognize him due to the surgeons shaving his facial hair and pumping his body full of saline fluid.
When I walked into the room with the doctor I even said “this isn’t my father” the doctor reassured me it was.
I walked over to the man on the bed picked up his hand and looked at the calloused hands of a woodworker that raised me.
There was no question that this man was my father.
Hands are like faces they tell the story of that persons life.