I got a mole lasered off my face yesterday. Not the Moley-Moley-Moley kind from Austin Powers, but the flesh-colored kind a la Tony La Russa.
The one in question took up residence on my forehead long ago, right in between my eyes. It’s bugged me for years – YEARS – so I finally did something about it all the while wearing a smile and a pair of goggles straight out of a Hitchcock film.
The actual “procedure” took less than five minutes. Puffs of air, the smell of burnt skin, and a delayed sensation akin to curling iron burn. That was the whole experience. That’s it. The end. Peace out mole.
After the appointment, I met a girlfriend at Panera for an overdue visit, and then ran several errands. I’m all congratulating myself for walking around with a raw spot on my forehead; not too long ago, I wouldn’t have been near confident (ahem uninhibited) enough to do that.
My second-to-last stop was Kroger. I was in desperate need of broccoli. And by broccoli, I mean a donut. En route to
produce the bakery, I passed moms with littles and old married couples and a few folks who emitted the funk that comes with winter layers and a lack of consistent hygiene. A man well into his eighties wearing a green coat pushed a shopping cart with groceries enough for one.
Ten minutes later, I started my car and looked up to see the gentleman in a green coat pushing his cart up and down the parking lot. It was about twenty degrees Fahrenheit outside. I turned my car back off and walked to him.
“Would you like help finding your car?” I asked.
“What?” he said turning around looking at me.
“Would you like help finding your car?”
“No, that’s okay, I’ll find it,” he said in a true display of generational, gentlemanly pride.
“I don’t mind walking around looking for it.”
“No that’s okay,” he reiterated while maintaining eye contact, kind as can be. “Thanks though.”
I took my time leaving the shopping area. Even still, by the time I got to the other side of the parking lot, he was wandering the same aisle he had been walking when I approached him.
My thoughts were interrupted by a change in my curling-iron burn sensation… At the next red light, I pulled down my visor to take a peek.
Holy fuck-a-moley. At some point during errands, the spot had started bleeding. A nice ring of dried blood bulls-eyed my forehead. Talk about enhancing a look. I mean clearly an increase of confidence goes hand in hand with giving fewer effs. So few that you unabashedly let your face bleed in public all the while smiling at people and being friendly.
Ignorance. Is. Bliss…
And then there’s the green-jacketed gentleman.
He probably took one look at me and thought, Spawn of Satan get away from me!!! Smile, smile, maintain eye contact. STOP ASKING ABOUT MY CAR, YA BLEEDER!
So yeah. I got my mole removed. I’m really happy about it. And if you were looking for some sort of meaningful takeaway, I’ve got nothing. But I am still laughing. Are you laughing? Well, that’s something then.
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