My face and I had a meeting that didn’t go too well. We met in the bathroom in front of a three-way mirror to consult what has turned into Pompeii of the lower regions.
My chin is headed south like a downhill skier, and it’s got me by the short hair, that’s supposed to make a girl appear younger.
Myth number 431.
Alright, I’ll rephrase that. Chopping off yards of hair does lift your demeanor a tad, those heavy layers draped like a tarp on a baseball field. But as time has her way, even a good trim can’t erase the droops.
I’ve learned to hold my chin up with my forefingers as I speak to someone, giving the term, keep your chin-up, all new meaning.
I say this with great remorse since I must seem ridiculous.
But so be it.
Going under the knife, the mere thought of it, puts me in such a state of terror, it could summon Dracula from the grave for one last curtain call.
To be knocked out, have some man who smells like Boca Raton, play with your features like Changable Charlie, chills me to the bone, and as you know, Thingirl has many. Did you have him as a kid? He was a movable puzzle that you could flip around to alter his looks.
Charlie was reversible, like a Norma Kamari bathing suit.
Bushy eyebrows or skinny ones? A mustache or goatee? How bout a big red nose, just in time for Christmas?
I may be remembering wrong, but not that much.
Where am I going with this tale of aesthetic woe?
To my wine cabinet? To Saks to buy a veil? To the nearest shrink’s office asking to be hospitalized?
Of course she won’t know what I’m talking about since my index fingers will be holding my face in place.
“Keep your chin-up Susannah,” she’ll say, “and that will be 250 dollars,” same price as a really good haircut.