Yesterday I had ten moles removed from my face, two of which were on my lower eyelids. I went to a plastic surgeon specializing in eyes because I didn’t want just anybody poking around my peepers with needles, scalpels and cauterizing guns. Doc offered to remove another eight prominent moles on my face and since she’s the expert at cosmetic removal, I threw caution to the wind and told her to go for it.

I was excited at the prospect of the one insurance co-pay to ten mole ratio but I had not thought about the fact that I had to pick my daughter up at her 1st day of her new preschool, ship my mom’s forgotten wallet back to her, meet my husband for lunch and run a sundry of other, very public, errands. Two hours and 10 moles later, my face was a sea of Neosporin and little round bandaids. Of course my dear husband told me it wasn’t that bad, even though the injections of Lidocaine had bruised my eyes making me look like a short, blonde prizefighter. We ate lunch as I assessed the damage by the looks on the faces of the people looking at me. No one asked me what had happened but it was apparent that my face was arousing a degree of curiosity. I almost heard people nicknaming me crazy bandaid lady in my head. Each look was the same, someone would look at me, almost imperceptibly cringe, focus on looking directly at my eyes to keep from obviously scanning my face while simultaneously trying to figure out what was wrong and was it contagious. Maybe here in Southern California we are just so accustomed to seeing post-operative plastic surgery patients running around that we’re one part curious one part nonplussed.

It was at the end of the day when picking up my daughter from school that I was reminded why I like kids so much. I went into her new classroom to see how her first day went and every kid I crossed paths with asked the same question, “Hey lady, what’s wrong with your face?” Some asked out of mere curiosity, some asked out of a little fear, like there might be a lion somewhere they needed to avoid, and some asked with a level of caring and concern I would not expect from 4 year olds. Instead of them thinking I was crazy bandaid lady, I got to tell them what happened as they sweetly asked, “Did it hurt?” Yes. “Did they give you a sucker when they were done?” No. “Are you ok?” Yes. “How long is it gonna look like that?” Not long. Crazy, but instead of feeling self-conscious, I felt a little special, like a ten year old with a fresh cast from a daring but disastrous stunt.