Text — Being Nosey
There’s a girl in one of my classes who is rather pretty. She has a set of sophisticated-looking eyes that imply business but could hint at something greater. And her hair looks like soft and feathery even carefully assembled in a ponytail. She’s smart too, or at least that’s what I infer from her class discussions. She always takes notes, and she always watches the professor with attentiveness. But there is one thing so striking it tends to hide the rest of her features. It’s her nose. I hate to be rude and superficial, but go with me. My first thought was of the movie version of Roald Dahl’sThe Witchessince it was so protruding. It even hooks at the end like a talon waiting to swipe at you. And it’s about seven sizes too big for her face, plumping her profile like a cruel portrayal of Pinocchio. As the professor rambles on, I can’t keep myself from thinking of all the big noses that have schnozed into my life. They aren’t the piece of broccoli in your braces nor are they the “Kick me!” sign on your back. They’re something else and greater because they’re a part of you for forever in some way or another. I am sure she knows her nose is as big as it is. Perhaps she’s gotten used to it by living with it for the last twenty years, but I’m sure it eclipses most of her view when she looks down at her notes. And that doesn’t help anyone. For a while in my high school years, I had extremely long hair. Why, I will never know, yet the allure of never getting a haircut and the exhibition that was my shiny and lustrous lockes seemed to point me in the right direction. My parents sometimes inquired about when I was planning to get it cut, but I merely shrugged it off because I liked it. Looking back, the hair—though maybe fine at the time—gives me groans as I glance through my past Facebook pictures. I cringe the type of awkward romantic comedy mishap humor cringe when I see each bouncing strand on my sophomore self. Why didn’t anyone tell me? I ask myself. Why do I want to erase this little bit of my life to save myself from the embarrassment in the future? Now, my hair is the shortest it’s ever been. I suppose I can look back at my timeline and be proud with the journey my hair has been on. But even so: nothing seems to have changed. I am still me, and people are still acting the same way towards me. I may even gag in the future reflecting on my pictures of the ’do of my college years. So I bring us back to the well-endowed schnoz on the girl in the first row. Unlike a hairstyle, her elephant trunk is with her forever lest she consider plastic surgery (which only for her have I ever strongly, mentally recommended). But even so, in years to come with her new button nose that makes her features shine brighter than ever, she’s just going to stare at her digital picture frame worrying about what people thought. People will talk to her the same post-surgery—some bold ones might congratulate her, but it will be as if nothing changed. No one ever tells you what you really need to fix, and, when you do fix it, people will never really want to tell you what to fix next. It’s all on you. Whatever your big nose may be, you’ll find it and adjust it in time. So what’s the point in worrying?
