Speaking of things Jewish, in sixth grade I was “madly in love” with a girl named Mona, so I planned to make her my girlfriend by asking her out at my Bar Mitzvah. I’d slow-dance with her toward the beginning of the after-party to plant the seed and then slow-dance with her again when it was getting late (11:45-ish). That’s when I’d pop the question. She’d have to say yes, if only out of Bar Mitzvah guilt. (I could persuade her later that I was worth it.) It’d be like The Notebook, which I hadn’t seen yet and still haven’t seen.
It all went according to plan until 11:47-ish, during the bridge of Christina Aguilera’s “Beautiful,” the part with the echo. No matter what we do. “Hey Mona…” No matter what we do. “Yeah?” No matter what we say! “What are you thinking?” No matter what we say!!! “Not much.” “Same.” We’re the song that’s outta tune. “Hey Charlie, did you know that people’s noses keep growing for their whole lives? That and their ears?” She said that to me. I didn’t ask her out that night. I did two weeks later, on the last day before summer. She said no.
To be fair, I don’t really have a Jewish nose. I don’t have the Jew bump, two thirds of the way down. I do have the Jew hook, but it’s visible only in profile. Even so, most people are surprised to learn I’m Jewish. Maybe that’s because I don’t really like matzoh or because my last name isn’t Schwartzstein, but I think it’s mostly because my nose isn’t quintessentially Jew-y (no offense to Jews). It’s more wide and triangular. Not to say that’s the issue. Usher has a wide nose and he looks great. It’s the way it interacts with the rest of my face. The rest of my face has something going for it. It has potential. I have a warm smile, so they say, and contemplative brown eyes with tiny flakes of brown. My cheekbones have a nice height to them and my hair is like my grandfather’s, thick and dark. My eyebrows are expressive and my forehead, while a bit large, is “strong.” My skin, thanks to Accutane, is pretty clear. I could have looked like Jake Gyllenhaal, or, at the very least, Andrew Garfield.
But my nose fucked everything up. How? It’s impossible to describe exactly. Part of it is definitely the angle, a solid 48° outward, as if it had tried to jump to someone else’s face but froze mid-air. My nose is that slightly awkward kid who thinks he’s the shit and sits with the popular kids at the cafeteria and wears the right clothing and makes really self-assured comments like “Kanye is the death of rap”—but everyone thinks he’s awkward because he doesn’t really make eye-contact and he’s always a step or two behind in the conversation, but he has no idea. He’s not the suspenders-wearing, calculator-friendly nerd who sits alone picking his nose. He’s much worse. He’s trying to be something he’s not.
I texted my girlfriend Bea last night to ask her what she thought of my nose. I was too embarrassed to ask anyone else except my parents, who suffer from even worse noses and therefore adore mine. She sent me a question mark. I pressed further: “How does it relate to your understanding of me?” “I don’t think about it that much, it’s just part of your face,” she said.
She’s lying. Sometimes she gets mad at me for stealing all the covers or scheduling rehearsal when we were supposed to get dinner. But she knows as well as I do that those are excuses, the icing on the cake that is my big, wide,
ugly, nose.
People say that beauty comes from the inside. Well, the inside of my nose is even worse: I can hardly breathe through it and I have an unusually weak sense of smell. Those are the only two things a nose is supposed to do. Doctors tell me these issues are due to a partially-deviated septum, a fate typically reserved for hard-core cocaine addicts. I was born with it.
Sometimes I fantasize about the easy way out. The nose job. But I’m not an idiot. I know that won’t undo the damage. My nose is bigger than my nose. It’s everything. It’s my soul and my social security (or insecurity) number. It’s what makes me me. Napoleon wouldn’t have been Napoleon if he’d been 6’4”. Well, I wouldn’t be funny if I had a nose like Brad Pitt’s. And even if I did, I’d still be a neurotic Jew with a serious case of arachnophobia.
(The real) Woody Allen said, “My only regret in life is that I am not someone else.” I used to empathize before I became the confident, well-built, Ivy League chick magnet I am today. The (nasal) Woody Allen only adds to my charm. It’s with great satisfaction that I can finally say I’m proud to be myself.
Actually… never mind. He’s right.