JOIN USIt landed one bright morning, right on the tip of my nose — a red, hard and stubborn mass, undecided on whether to break into a white blob or remain a luscious red. Meanwhile, it contributed to its signature itch and flakiness, being obviously prominent on the snout. The protrusion only made my long, sharp nose longer and sharper, akin to a bill.
Well, the beauty of the additions on your face, called pimples, has the knack of springing surprises on you. They announce their arrival, like an unwanted guest, when you least expect them, while blissfully sleeping, or just before an important event.
On cheeks and chin, I can bear with a generous demeanour, being a fervent host in my teens. However, having moved on, I bade them a strong farewell long ago, clearing all prints and evidences of their existence in my life. But, on the tip of the nose, seriously?
“Rudolph’s nose” — was the earnest verdict of my younger daughter, perhaps dreaming about her special Christmas gift. “No, it’s more like Pinocchio’s” — was the inquisitive eye of the elder one, quickly adding a nosey, “What have you been doing, ma?” The deep vermilion shade only spread further across the frontage. My better half, catching my ‘death stare’ well, chose a dazed look over an incredulous one, and made a diplomatic move and dug his nose deeper into the dailies. Obviously, it was a promising day for all noses except mine.
On the first day, I took advantage of its colour and strutted about as the angry young (?) woman. The queer looks and the suppressed giggles around did achieve the ‘angry’ part of the motto. Nevertheless, I could not carry this image for long as the ominous cells huddled and began putting up a unified show. They were at the peak of their career, what with all the exposure. Now, I was certain I was growing a proboscis.
As all tragic events call for, tongue-clicking and tips started pouring in. Some chided me for being overzealous with beauty regimes; a friend cheerfully quipped, “Look what happens if you get nosey! Invariably you pick up some of the dirt.” Yet some, shocked by my olfactory protrusion, avoided me, lest I begin sucking blood and spreading dreaded diseases!
Meanwhile, I was battling the throbbing pain and the onslaught of a headache — for obvious reasons. This took a toll on me. Perhaps there was some radiation therapy? Silently, the little mass continued its show, enjoying my chagrin and the response of the wide audience. Feeling spent, I slipped into a deep slumber. And lo! From the depths of my subconscious, a solution dawned — every show has to end! Equipped with this great spiritual knowledge, I awoke with gusto. Nonchalance being my new mantra, I viewed the proboscis with renewed interest.
Perhaps I had gained a formidable look to my personality? Or maybe I was the new celebrity with the longest nose? Why not accessorise the appendage? Whatever my mind fancied, I mused inwardly, while outwardly I cold-shouldered the presence of the performer.
Soon, the insipid host in me killed the creativity of the artiste; the unwanted mass lost its vigour, spent all its energy on a dull, drab stage. Packing bags and baggage, it was set to leave and bid a tearful goodbye.
Now back to my old self and ready for human interaction, I must say with a touch of wisdom: I value my nose a lot now — without the proboscis.