Not Scarface

I've received a few random comments and e-mails inquiring about the status of the wound on my forehead from when I had a small piece of skin cancer cut out a few weeks ago. [Strong content. View discretion is advised.]


I haven't written about it because there's no story. I had a cracker jack dermatologist who was a whiz kid with the needle and thread. A true star! People assured me that I'd be scared for life and that I should have had a plastic surgeon in the room to sew up the wound. I was further assured that I would need a skin graft to fix that mess. I got all worked up. People are such busy-bodies.

Well, as you can see, I have practically NOTHING to show for all that agony. (And, believe me, it was a horrific experience. Sewing the wound shut was a violent act!)


I have to confess (perhaps foolishly) that I am deeply disappointed. I wanted a big, prominent scar. I've spent my whole life looking like a goddamn actuary accountant. I wanted a scar in the hope that it would toughen-up my look a bit. Like I fought off ninja assassins or something.

I had to walk around the city with a thick bandage on my forehead for two weeks after the operation. When people asked what happened, I told them that I got it the night Voldemort murdered my parents. It was fun! Perhaps I'll go back and insist that he reopen the wound and restitch it in a more careless, less professional manner.

I was commenting to Mrs. Wife that perhaps the scar won't tan and that it would become more prominent in the summertime. She callously reminded me that too much sun is what got me into this mess in the first place and that, henceforth, I would be wearing a hat to the beach. What a killjoy.