As a teenager, when someone made nasty comments about my hair/clothes/ general appearance, mother used to say, “You look as good as she does.” That was a loaded response depending on who my aggressor was. If they were attractive, I felt better. If they were a bit lacking in physical attributes, not so much.
Now many dog years past teenage angst, I don’t care what other people think about my appearance. However, being quarantined presented an opportunity for a bit of self-awareness; I would even go as far to say overdue inventory.
That exercise in self-discovery led to some realizations I’d just as soon not face.
I haven’t had a haircut since late February; what to do? Well, I could always tuck it behind my ears. Good Lord what a shock that was. Those suckers could anchor a circus tent in a high wind.
If that weren’t horrific enough my eyes meandered over to my nose. I should have resisted the urge to look. It is ginormous too.
Boys and girls, it’s no myth; ears and noses grow with age. I’m not at all certain the term Mother nature is applicable. No woman would do that to other women. You’d think there would be some compensating factor for our gender’s loss of estrogen.
Short of plastic surgery there’s nothing I can do but embrace my enlarged protuberances. Those big honking ears will anchor my mask even in gale-force winds. And the mask hides most of what needs to remain hidden, including part of my chicken neck.
That is the end of my quarantine enlightenment. I have covered all the mirrors in the house and will return to binge-watching Netflix.
I am a lifelong Southerner, short story author, and essayist. Home is Dallas, Texas.
My essays have appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, The Dead Mule School of Southern Writing.