Sometimes, before I leave the apartment for the day, I go a little anti-Coco and add one piece: to my forehead. I take a perverse pleasure in seeing how long it takes someone to comment and who comments.
Some days I'm really asking for it--say, a bus ticke(more)t stuck to my forehead while I feed $2.30 in pennies into the machine right next to the waiting bus driver.
Other days I go a little more open-ended: who will ask about the very realistic fake spider dangling between my eyes; who will suggest that I might have something (a spinach leaf) caught in my eyebrow; who will giggle about the L O S E R I scrawled in lipstick on my own forehead, as though I'd been caught unawares by my frenemy at a nightmarish sleepover.
But ever since I moved to Portland, Oregon, and Lady Gaga came on the scene . . . Well, no one says anything anymore. The row of tiny colorful worry dolls that I've dotted my forehead with might just be a fashion statement. Or I might be some egomaniac who is wearing them in order to make people ask me about them. And then I'll scoff--you think this is weird? Come on, why can't a person wear things on her forehead?
Maybe I'll move down, to the nose. Would that be too on the nose?(less)