In the affluent New York suburb where I spent my formative years, lots of girls got nose jobs. I thought my nose was ruining the whole package that is me when in fact, it served to enhance it.
Basically, I realized that it was all in my head. More than that, they saw my confidence, my passion, my intelligence. Eventually I realized I had a warped self-image when I looked in the mirror, I focused regretfully at the crazy nose gifted me, but when others looked at me, they saw the whole package-my brown eyes, my big smile, my wild hair. I didn’t stop hating on my nose until I went to college and began the slow, uphill battle toward self-acceptance. I spent hours in the mirror manipulating the shape of my nose to look more “normal.” When I was younger, I thought my nose stuck out from my face like a flashing sign reading, “I’m not quite pretty enough!” If I liked a guy, I tried awkwardly to turn so that he could not see my profile. It’s long and has a bump near the top, a rather bony one that protrudes awkwardly off to one side. Add that to all the mean-ass kids on the playground who called out honker, schnoz, horse, beak, snout, Gonzo, Ringo, or pelican as I passed and I was soon aware that I wore an acute abnormality in the middle of my face.įor the majority of my preteen and teen years, I felt overshadowed by my nose. A boy named Danny called me Pinocchio for a whole summer. Right about the same time, the mockery began. I was about 9 years old when my nose started to grow from its doll-like form into the large facial outcrop it is now. It took years for me to learn to love it.
Not to brag, but I’ve been told I have a big nose.
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