I have a witch mole.
It is a birthmark on my cheek that sticks out like someone glued the tip of a skin-colored raisin to my face.
When I was a little girl, it was just a dark, slightly raised “beauty mark” like Natalie Portman’s signature mole. But now that I’m 42 and all hormonally out of whack, my skin is changing. My mole is growing.
And as if that’s not exciting enough…it’s hairy. I’m talking dark, wiry, mole hairs.
Maybe even a grove of them.
And even though I pluck it daily, perhaps multiple times daily, it seems to have an agenda of its own: “Must. Cover. Mole. With hair.” The hair appears to be fiercely protective of its nesting ground. Either that or it might just be part of my lady-beard trying to aggressively claim new territory.
I probably shouldn’t have told you, because now if we ever meet you’re not going to see anything BUT this thing. You’ll probably come at me like Austin Powers in Goldmember. “MOLE-AY, MOLE-AY, MOLE-AY!”
Clearly, I’m obsessing about this.
But I can’t help it. I have young children. Apparently three-dimensional facial forms have a magnetic pull to the perma-sticky fingers of the 10-and-under crowd.
When I’m reading to my five-year-old son “Bucket Head,” I have learned to position myself on his right with my mole facing away from him so that he can concentrate on the story and not on my mole. “What IS that thing, Mommy? It’s looking at me!”
I realize I have choices.
Celebrities like Sarah Jessica Parker and Enrique Iglesias have had their signature moles removed. Believe me, I’ve thought about it.
But ultimately, I have come to the conclusion that my witch mole is part of my charm…part of the ornamentation that is uniquely mine.
And then one glorious Sunday at church, God spoke to me and confirmed my suspicions.
The reading that day was from the Book of Proverbs (31:9b-31). It’s the one about “A [spouse] of noble character being worth far more than rubies.” (In the Bible it says “wife,” not spouse, but this proverb is universal, in my humble opinion.)
And then the “ah-a” moment:
“…Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the LORD is to be praised.”
Can I get a witness?!
“Aw hayle yeah” I thought to myself. “Who cares what I look like?! Beauty fades. I want to be a good person. I want to be a good wife, and mother, and community member. What matters most is how pretty I am on the inside!”
So fortified was I by the Good Book that when I got home from church that day I decided to tackle some piles of clutter and make a hefty donation to the local Goodwill store.
A few hours later, I pulled up to the donation station, unloaded my boxes and bags, and was feeling pretty good about my contribution to the greater good that day.
“Would you like a receipt, sir?” the Goodwill volunteer asked me.
She just called me “sir.”
So much for the greater good. So much for beauty being only skin deep.
That one syllable shook me to the core.
Quick word of advice gals, don’t forget your lipstick when you’re out there doing good works for the greater good, because there is nothing that can take the wind out of your sail like being mistaken for a man.
No wait. That can’t be the moral of this story.
How about this: steer clear of the Goodwill! Their volunteers are the meanest!
No, that can’t be right.
Eh, fuck it.
Does anyone have the number of Sarah Jessica Parker’s dermatologist?
KIDDING. I kid.
The mole is staying, dammit.
If you don’t like it, don’t look at it.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some work to do. (As soon as I finish plucking.)