During a period of my youth when I had outgrown my Barbie dolls but before I was old enough to date, I would spend hours writing my signature over and over again. This act wasn’t a random or obsessive-compulsive exercise in penmanship. I practiced signing my name with purpose. I knew I would someday become Mrs. Sean Cassidy or Mrs. Andy Gibb. Therefore, I needed a glamorous autograph to match my famous husband’s. And so, I wrote all the variations in as delicate a cursive as I could muster.
Diana Cassidy
Diana Gibb
Diana G. Cassidy
During this process, I took particular note of the letter D. Did I want a big loop or a smaller one? Did I want a scrolling loop? Or should I opt for a more casual D, so it didn’t look like I was trying too hard? These were challenging and potentially life-altering questions for the future Mrs. Sean Cassidy/Andy Gibb. I spent hours on the first letter of my name, leaving little time to decide whether I should dot the “I” in “Diana” with a heart. Tough call.
My dreams of marrying either heartthrob eventually faded, and I never worked on my signature again. Despite all the hours of practice in my youth, Mrs. Diana Mahmoud ended up with an average John Hancock. While my handwritten name isn’t glamorous, it is at least legible—which is more than I can say for the chicken scratch that passes off as Mr. Mahmoud’s signature.
Like you, I’ve signed thousands of pieces of paper throughout the years without giving it a second thought. Why would I? Never once had the authenticity of my signature been called into question—that is, until I moved to Singapore.
On three separate occasions, my Singaporean bank denied me access to a critical and time-sensitive document because the handwritten name on the form I filled out “didn’t match the signature on file.” On my fourth attempt to get the information, I tried to head off the problem by taking the signed form and my passport and official Foreign Identification Number to the bank to prove I was who I said I was. I assumed having proof of identification would automatically solve my problem, but it didn’t. The bank teller politely explained that my signature was still an issue because it didn’t look enough like the digital copy I had made on file at the bank years earlier.
“What about Mr. Mahmoud’s signature?” I inquired.
“Mr. Mahmoud’s signature is fine,” the teller replied.
I couldn’t help but scoff. If you saw my husband’s signature, you would too. Mr. Mahmoud might as well be signing his name with an X because this would at least be a recognizable character.
Sensing my frustration, the teller offered to let me redo the official bank signature card because it had caused me so much trouble. She also instructed me to write my name exactly how I had signed it on the form to avoid confusion. And just as I did when prepping to be Mrs. Sean Cassidy/Andy Gibb, she even took out a piece of paper so I could practice.
Mrs. Diana Mahmoud
Mrs. Diana Mahmoud
Mrs. Diana Mahmoud
No matter how I tried, I could not sign my name precisely as I did on the form. The issue was the damn D—specifically the loop—which was sometimes bigger, sometimes smaller, and sometimes scrolling too much. While my signature is legible, it is, apparently, not consistent.
Eventually, the teller accepted a version of my handwritten name. And only after taking both my passport and FIN number as proof I was who my signature said I was, had her supervisor approve the form.
Maybe it’s a good thing I never became Mrs. Sean Cassidy/Andy Gibb because my autograph would never have been up to snuff. But I can’t help but wonder whether the bank may have approved my handwritten signature if I started dotting the “I” with a heart, after all.
