Remember how we played together as children? What fun we had twisting your features and communicating without words. My personal favorite was your pout, a combination of petulance and innocence. Particularly useful for avoiding the consumption of root vegetables. Thanks for that.
We’ve been estranged for some time now. How long has it been? Three decades? No, four decades. A long time.
It’s my fault. I take responsibility for destroying our mutual affection. I’m sorry. Even if all your features can’t come together in an act of forgiveness, I hope Nose will understand and allow me to reclaim you, dear Face, as my own.
The trouble began with playground teasing. With a surname like Bird, name-calling required no imagination. As we grew older, our father contributed to the story. Boobs too small. Ass too big. Brain too small. Nose too big. He spit those words at me like a curse. In time, I hated Nose.
When remarking on someone’s appearance, do we say that person has the most incredible nose? No, we don’t. The nose is meant to be unremarkable. It’s like catering at a wedding. Your guests don’t attend for the food. You don’t get any credit when it’s good. But when it’s not, that’s all you hear about.
But Nose anchored the structure. The space between Forehead and Eyes and Mouth and Chin. Nose held all the power.
In our twenties, I had Nose fixed under the guise of septorhinoplasty, a surgical procedure addressing function. You remember the summer you were struck hard with a football during a neighborhood scrimmage. The impact damaged Nose’s septum, making our migraines worse. No shame in fixing something that doesn’t work, right?
And remember our recovery? The doctor told us most of the swelling and bruising would subside after a week or two. Eyes swelled shut for three days. Vision blurred for three more. Skin worked through the color wheel from black and red to purple, landing on jaundice at four weeks. At nine weeks the doctor declared all signs of swelling had vanished. Nose remained unconvinced. Its newly flared nostrils and upturned tip looked like I’d smooshed it against a window. I’d traded a Grecian nose for a pig’s snout.
After fourteen months locked in battle with a misogynistic doctor with a God complex, this little piggy searched for another surgeon. Apparently, correcting a botched nose job is best done by a plastic surgeon specializing in revision rhinoplasty.
Newest Nose is more like it was before the initial surgery but with two novel additions—a thick, fleshy tip and a bump of scar tissue along its right side. I developed a tic, kneading this spot trying to break down the fibrous cells and erase the memories.
You’ll be please to know that I’ve decided to opt out of socially constructed beauty ideals and embrace my schnoz. Recently I came across an article in the New York Post extolling the virtues of prominent noses and reporting a forty-four percent drop in nose jobs since 2000. It went on to highlight a fashion industry trend of European designers showcasing runway models with distinctive features such as “snouts with clout.”
I’m trying to love Newest Nose with the kindness and respect it deserves. Jolie laide. Bless the French for celebrating idiosyncratic beauty in all its glory.
Still, I mourn the loss of old Nose, lean and chiseled, a long straight slope. It was a big nose. A good nose. I ruined our Face. Please forgive me.
Shell Bird is a writer and mixed media artist living in Nashville. After a global business career, she now writes about human behavior. She is currently at work on a memoir exploring the paradox of forgiveness. Besides words, she loves ephemera, trees, and Halloween.
