I've got them.
Some kids notice my crooked fingers when I'm telling stories. When I see them noticing, and if there's time and it's appropriate for the show, I tell "The Crooked Little Finger" by Philippa Pearce. At the end of the story, I say, "So just watch out..." and show my little finger. Sometimes I hear gasps. Then I explain, again, that the story is by Philippa Pearce, and that I was born like this. Occasionally there's a kid in the audience who also has crooked fingers.
I was born with crooked fingers on both hands, as were most of my siblings and my father. They don't hurt, they're not arthritic, they're just crooked. My brother Mark has them and is a fine organist. Faith's are even more crooked and they don't prevent her from playing viola. I quite like them.
Here are pictures of the plaster cast I did of my hand in nursery school:
That's a long name for a four-year-old to fit on the plaster.