The hairiest mole I've ever seen in my life: Turning points in self-awareness
Is there anything more disturbing in the whole universe than realizing something
1. The setting: A Superstore parking lot in the fall of 2007. I meet my public school friends for Slurpees before heading to the parking lot to stand in a really big circle. I’m wearing a baggy fleece sweater and denim that drags on the ground — Old Navy! I’ve never really considered my hair. No photos of me exist from this time period, except one my father covertly uploaded to Facebook where I’m holding a lizard and my mouth is wide and thin (“like a canoe,” my brother tells me). A boy in the group carrying a skateboard looks at me, and the mole in my cheek and says: “You have the hairiest mole I’ve ever seen in my life.”
He’s right — I’ve caught wisps of mole hair in my reflection lately. I’ve noticed how it catches the light, softly, but I thought it was otherwise invisible. When I get home, I pluck out all of the hair with a pair of tweezers. My naked face mole plopped beside my flat mouth like a forgotten speck of sauce. I will pluck the hairs daily for the rest of my life.
2. It’s 2015. I’m 21 years old and permanently inebriated. When I take selfies, I raise my eyebrows and smile so I look demure, casual, and candid. I hate every picture of myself except for a notable few taken on film. My cheekbones earn me compliments and I’ve been fiddling with my eyebrows, but I haven’t overdone it. I watch Vines all afternoon instead of studying. I watch compilations of Vines on YouTube and follow Vine blogs on Tumblr. There’s a trend blowing up the internet where people make their lips bigger by sucking on shot glasses. It’s called the Kylie Jenner Lip Challenge, and some kids end up in the ER.
I try it with a long shot glass, pushing my lips inside and sucking all the air out. I hold it there for as long as I possibly can. When my lips flop out, swollen and bruised, I’m absolutely floored by my reflection: I look amazing! I take pictures and send them to my friends. “Omg did you get lip injections?” one asks. No ma’am! But now I really want to! The swelling receded and I realized my brother was right about my mouth looking like a canoe. My front camera torments me. I begin pouting more, angling the camera down so my top lip looks a bit larger. I wear fake, bulging latex lips for Halloween and I truly believe they complement my face shape incredibly. My mother tells me she’s been getting lip filler for years. I think, “oh, that makes a lot of sense.”
3. Hashtag streetstyle! It’s 2014 and influencers are not yet a protected class. Much of the conversation in fashion is still centred on the question of what to do about all of these bloggers at shows. Who’s front row is it anyway? I wear American Apparel exclusively and keep up with the latest Sartorialist and Man Repeller posts like being an HBO-Girls-Shoshanna is my day job.
I’m trapezing through Parc La Fontaine on a fine summer evening. Cicadas are gurgling, people are spreadeagled on blankets inhaling dep wine. Life is good. On a small bridge, I’m approached by a woman who tells me she’s a fashion blogger with thousands of followers on Tumblr. She gives me her card. Could she take my photo? OMG yes of course! I’m feeling like hot shit in my fisherman sweater and high waist jeans. She snaps a bunch of photos and leaves. Days later, the photos appear on my Dashboard. She is not an excellent photographer, but I discover something terrible in the profile photos: My skull is inexplicably sinking towards my chest. My shoulders betray my confidence. I become aware of a pain in my back. I print out diagrams to improve my posture, but in the years to come, I still catch myself in photos and reflections folding my head into my ribs like a common schlemiel.
4. If there’s one thing I love about Toronto, it’s that everyone seems to love Drake unironically. When Passionfruit comes on in the club, the euphoria is indescribable. It’s 2018 and I’m visiting my friend Tara, who lives in the Aura, a luxury highrise on Yonge and Gerrard with an excellent view of the CN Tower. We twerk on the balcony and caption our photos with “Don’t switch on me, I’ve got big plans,” and drink Skinny Girl Margaritas.
Fortunately, I’ve just broken up with my boyfriend and rediscovered my libido. I’ve picked up the habit of constantly checking Grindr. I get a message from a guy whose profile says he studies philosophy at Ryerson. He’s like, “hey” and I’m like, “heyy,” and he asks me for a picture where I’m smiling. I send him a selfie. He says, “smiling but with teeth.” This is usually out of scope for me, but I practice grinning naturally in the mirror and send him a fresh one. After a few minutes he doesn’t reply.
“Hey?” I say. I look at the grin. Maybe I looked a bit too strained and desperate. Suddenly, a response: “sorry I only go for guys with good teeth.” My heart falls through my butt. “Oh haha okay” I say. Then he blocks me. My parents both had braces. My brother had braces. My own mouth wasn’t very messy, but the orthodontist recommended headgear for my overbite. My dad thought that was absurd and brushed him off. I grew up to have slightly small, vaguely crooked teeth. Nothing offensive, but I had never been able to articulate what it was about them I didn’t like.
On a whim, I spent $2500 on invisible aligners from a DTC brand. For eight months, I felt them squeeze my teeth into perfection. In the last month, CBC investigated the brand and determined they were kind of shitty. My own teeth were mostly unchanged. I took the L on the money and now often contemplate veneers.
5. Back in 2009, my best friend and I would trot around our suburb, terrorize the local Starbucks, and talk about our favourite Tegan and Sara banter videos. We had an inside joke where if one of us had to pass gas (I’m not comfortable with the term or the concept of “farting”), we would run a little bit ahead on the sidewalk for some privacy.
After running a few metres ahead for a quick fluff, my friend watched me walk towards her. She said, “Oh my god, how come you don’t move your arms when you walk?” Her face showed genuine grave concern. I stepped towards her. My arms stayed pressed to my side. I realized they were tense. Was I subconsciously doing that? We practiced arm swinging in the middle of the street until it felt normal. The tension kind of dissipated. We would joke about this later. She would remind me to coordinate my arm swinging to my steps and I would laugh and feel self-conscious.
Sometimes today, when I feel particularly exposed (like crossing a street or simply existing anywhere in Los Angeles) I become hyper-aware of my arm movements. Am I doing it right? Does it look natural? Sometimes I catch glimpses of strangers marching with solid arms and I have to imagine nobody has had the heart to tell them. I wish I was that brave.