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Devils Lake Journal - Devils Lake, ND
  • Lost in Suburbia: Free the forehead

  • “What did you do to your face?” my husband asked as he peered at me from the bathroom doorway.

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  • “What did you do to your face?” my husband asked as he peered at me from the bathroom doorway.
    I tried to look nonchalant. It was actually pretty easy to look nonchalant because my eyebrows were locked in a nonchalant position.
    “I don’t know what you mean,” I shrugged.
    He raised his eyebrows. I tried to raise mine back. No luck.
    “You did something. You look different,” he said peering some more.
    “Younger?” I asked hopefully.
    “Noooo … .”
    “Smoother?” I prompted.
    “Noooo … .”
    “Frozen?” I offered reluctantly.
    “YES!” he shouted. I nodded. There was no denying it. I had Frozen Forehead. I had gone to the dermatologist for some cream for some brown spots and left with a forehead full of Botox. It was a free sample to see if I liked the results. Kind of like what drug dealers do to get you hooked on crack.
    The problem was, although I liked the smooth forehead, I was not thrilled with the fact that I couldn’t move my eyebrows more than a millimeter. I couldn’t raise them in surprise or furrow them in anger or raise one and lower the other when I wanted to impersonate a Vulcan. I was stuck in nonchalant, and I was trapped there for six months.
    “I got Botox,” I admitted. “I went over to the dark side.” He shook his head. We both knew I didn’t really need it. My forehead lines weren’t terrible. But I’d been seduced by all the smooth foreheads at the doctor’s office. Somehow I thought erasing my forehead lines would make me look younger. I didn’t realize it was going to make me look like a wax figure. Even though I’d seen enough frozen foreheads in celebrity magazines to know it could make you look like you were perpetually surprised, I conveniently forgot about those bad Botox jobs when I decided to drink the Kool-Aid, or rather, inject it into my forehead, as the case may be.
    “How long until your eyebrows move again?” he wondered.
    “Four to six months.” I groaned. I was really bummed. The dermatologist had used the tiniest amount of the stuff, but apparently a little goes a long way. If my husband could notice something was amiss – and this coming from a guy who wouldn’t notice if a bison ran through our living room – then clearly it wasn’t working for me.
    I didn’t realize how limiting this would be until I took my new forehead out for a spin. When I tried to scowl at the woman who cut in front of me at the deli, I merely looked constipated. My kids laughed when I yelled at them because I didn’t look mean enough. And when I tried to look surprised at the cost of gas, my eyes just bulged and I looked I was having a stroke.
    Page 2 of 2 - After awhile I got used to looking like I’d been embalmed. And then one day, it just suddenly wore off. 
    “Look!” I cried to my husband when he got home. I moved my eyebrows up and down like a ventriloquist’s dummy. I scowled, raised one eyebrow, glared, and ran through my whole repertoire of eyebrow moves in a matter of seconds. “My forehead is out of frozen jail!”
    “That’s great, honey!” he exclaimed. 
    “So what should we do to celebrate?” I asked.
    He thought for a minute. “I think we should have a party.”
    “A party?” I wondered.
    “Yeah, a welcome-home party for your eyebrows!”
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