The 2nd-to-last Unicorn

Again, the only logical, physiologically logical, angle of approach to this topic is head first. I do not think of it as a big deal because it is not. It is neither big, nor is it a deal. What it is, is a sort of bump on my forehead. Not even a bump, actually. I’m trying to fish or scavenge or plumb for the right expression here, one that will adequately describe its geometry yet not sound off putting. Like I’m a freak, which I am not. Let us do it medical then: it is a kind of protuberance or protrusion located precisely on my axis of symmetry, just below the latitude where forehead meets hair. Small, insignificant almost and yet remarkably, sometimes annoyingly, visible. The really, really correct medical term for it is “fibroma” so my doctor told me.

It is benevolent, in case you’re wondering. I mean, a blog post about me finding out I have cancer will likely begin considerably less experimental and facetious, I hope, God [of any denomination] forbid. Also, a modicum of superstition and “err on the side of not tempting fate” calls for me deleting this last phrase but let me be “rational” this one time.

Back to fibromae. Supposedly you can get them anywhere on/in your body and sometimes they grow to an optically disagreeable size and should be removed if the person feels it to be disfiguring. If the person has the necessary dineros from medical insurance. If the person happens to live in a province of the planet that thinks this type of surgery is affordable and relevant.

In my case, the fibrome is really not particularly sizable [in my lmtd opinion] but it is, as see above, in a very salient position. Position matters. When my ‘Fro grows long enough nobody takes notice of my protuberance and everything is silent on the ventral front. But ‘lo! if I do cut it [which in summer often seems like an stunningly sane proposition] then everybody and their third-degree cousin crawls out of the woodworks to remark or wise-crack on it. The arrogant or helpful thing about this is that I am conscious enough of my advantageous countenance not to be truly bothered by these comments especially if they come from folks whose, ugh, facial geometry is unable, so to speak, to hold a proverbial glim to mine. Yet allthewhile this in no way immunizes me to becoming annoyed with the repetitivity/inanity of the remarks since nobody likes to listen to broken records. [This could be a bit more analytical but the whinging part is just too darn cathartic. Stewie: “Hhhhuinging.”] Thus and so, I was occasionally, casually toying with the idea of having the darn thing surgically excised and be done with this piddling imperfection, irregardless of whether or not it are indeed the flaws that allegedly accentuate the sublime or not.

However, another wrench was thrown in my woolgathering by my girlfriend who announced that the protuberance or little horn or, more appropriately, little Big horn is a part of me and must never be removed. This lately has lead to the condition that I have come to appreciate the little bugger, very much in line with the miserable “freak-who-learns-to-accept-him/herself”-narratives; despite thinking it unreasonable, in my brain of brains,  to imagine myself as being a freak due to a petty little fibrome. A fibrome which I could decide at any moment to have surgically banished from my forehead forever and ever and ever ever without so much as a word to Ms. Jackson. Though of course then crooning “I am for real!” is a tougher proposition once I have let had performed some nip&tuck on my face. Yes?

So I do not, I let the fibroblastic fucker stay right where it is and use it, as dear, late Foucault would have it, as an object to think with. A medical phenomenon that happens to be a part of myself and also part of an estranging, entertaining, aesthetic discourse among friends and acquaintances. The straightforward claim would be to say that it makes me unique, that it transforms me into a little, human unicorn, as my brother would have it. But what makes it poignant [hmmmm!] pour moi is the variety of responses it calls forth, how many people boldly remark on it as though other parts of my person immunized me to unbidden commentary or as though the little Big Horn was not, for that matter, perceived as a part of me and thus fair game for any type of ill-considered breeze-shooting.

Ultimately, it is one of those vexing, bottomless everyday mysteries and I should keep it in place as long as its physical position never becomes its mental one: foremost.


About tmabona

writer, reader [bolano, DW, bellow, deLillo], runner, badmintoneer
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