Recently Byron looked at me and commented enthusiastically Hey, that scar has vanished!
You know, the vicious slash I acquired a few weeks after moving here, when the experts noticed a cancerous lesion.
In the middle of my face. Requiring immediate removal.
Resulting, of course, in a mark that aged me by at least five years – I’d certainly always without fail been carded before, even in a country that has a drinking age of eighteen.
In the states I would have been referred to a plastic surgeon (even when I was poor) to remove a tumor in this location. Not in Cambridge; nope, they just go with mutilation. Though everyone was very polite about it at the time.
I blinked and reviewed my mental files, then said So for the last four and a half years you have been lying about the fact that it was visible at all, let alone a disfiguring feature?
He replied Well… yeah.
Not surprising at all coming from someone proud to be known as the Lindsay Lohan of Logic.
Still. I knew it was there, and the fact that everyone (except, of course, the resident teenager) rushed to reassure me did not help.