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My Forehead

A World of Fear

North By Southwest

O. Henry's Incredible Time-Travel Adventure!

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Untitled Ashton Kutcher Romantic Comedy Project
Geek
Girls Are Neat
The Dating Lame
Katherine
The Reunion Committee
Marriage Stuff
Stay For The Credits

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(Pre-English 127)

An Old Script

An Incomplete Book

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dogwelder.com

English 127 Portfolio

Forehead
(this was turned in with the highly pretentious title of
assignment one: mirror)

I didn’t want it to be my forehead.

I wanted to look in the mirror and be shocked by the pure color of my eyes, and the power behind them- eyes that reveal a man of intelligence, an honest, strong-willed man- but those are not my eyes. My eyes see, but are not piercing. They are not a haunting deep green or icy blue- just basic brown. They will never make strong men weep and pure women swoon- at least, not without a lot of help.

In the past, when I was in high school, it would have been the combination punch of my not-quite-elephantine ears and apparently-drawn-with-magic-marker eyebrows. In high school they were a tag-team that dominated my head, to the point that I could draw a picture of myself as just unibrow and ears and still be recognized. But my forehead has been fighting a slow war to take over my face, and my ears and eyebrows have been overshadowed by the pink cantaloupe growing above them. They try to keep up- especially my brows, which have in recent years begun sprouting wild red hairs in a desperate bid for attention- but they are fighting an unwinnable battle.

Even my beard would be better. But my beard is only there because of two things: laziness and fat. I didn’t originally set out to grow a beard- I just didn’t get around to shaving for a while, and it showed up on its own. Once I had it, I thought that having a beard created the illusion of a jaw line and a chin (though it fooled no one but me) so I kept it. My beard has joined the battle for attention with my brows, also shooting out red hairs (and the occasional white one), but it is too far away from my forehead to be an effective combatant.

So, I am my forehead.

My forehead gets a little larger every day, just like the rest of me. It uses the gradual retreat of my hairline to show me that time is passing, that my life gets shorter with every second, with every dead follicle. It gains creases and wrinkles every day, reminding me that I’m not just passing through time, but that my body is wearing out, that every task I attempt tomorrow will be a shade more difficult than it would have been yesterday. It reminds me that I don’t have the time to waste that I had when I was eighteen, or twenty, or thirty.

I realize this all sounds like a condemnation of my forehead, but it doesn’t just mock me. The gradual increase in forehead square footage lets me imagine I’m experiencing a comparable expansion of brain mass- after all grass doesn’t grow on a busy street. Of course, it doesn’t grow in cement either, but I’m trying to stay positive.

The skin on my forehead, even as it wrinkles, manages to remain soft. It has a pimple- which I can’t really say I like, but it does make me think “If I’m young enough to still get zits, I’m young enough to live my life instead of giving up and moving to the Early Retirement Home for Men With Hair Issues.” The pimple also shows my forehead’s sense of humor: it’s at a point midway between my eyebrows and my hairline, right where my high school hairline once was. I imagine my forehead planning it out: “How can I make him feel young and old at the same time? I have it- a pimple at the high school hairline! I am the smartest forehead alive!” I don’t mind my forehead’s little joke- I would make the same one if our positions were reversed.

So, my forehead presents a balanced look at me- not as young and vibrant as I once was, but not quite ready for the grave; perhaps less able than before, but still capable of great things. Plus, it does an excellent job keeping my skull from exposure to the elements, and for that I am eternally grateful.