Dear Forehead, I hate you.

In the ultimate chick flick, Steel Magnolias, Dolly Parton’s character said “Time marches on, and eventually you realize it’s marching across your face.”

Oh, Dolly. People should really take you more seriously.

I loathe my forehead these days. I really do. For one simple reason. I am in my early 20s. I look like I am in my early teens. Except when it comes to my forehead. For the most part, the skin of my forehead is pretty clear. Not a whole lot of acne or other potentially unsightly blemishes. So I’m not moving in reverse on the age scale.

Unfortunately, my forehead is a little ahead of the game.

If one were to look at my forehead for more than four seconds, one might take note of two blooming wrinkles spreading across the flesh spawning the space between my eyebrows and hairline. They aren’t deep enough that people question them. But they are deep enough that my sister has felt the need to comment on them. And they are right where my forehead creases when I hold an incredulous expression on my face.

And oddly enough, it is making me question myself. This is the only sign of wrinkles on my face thus far. Am I too skeptical? Too sarcastic? Is there a flaw in my reaction to the world around me that has resulted in the premature development of wrinkles on my forehead?

Thanks for the self-doubt, forehead. Like I couldn’t handle that on my own.

You can try to argue sun exposure, but there is no merit for that. I don’t spend much time in direct sunlight, for starters. The make up I wear has a 15 SPF, so I’m never completely bare in the any kind of outdoor light. One look at my fair skin will tell you that I don’t go tanning, despite prodding from some people who insist that it “just makes you glow.” So telling me to avoid sun light just translates to not changing my routine.

The only other explanation may be the way I sleep, according to various sources, including WebMD (I should really get the hell off the internet once in a while). Apparently, sleeping on your face leads to a furrowed brow. I know I sleep on my face. People who have seen me sleep have told me as much. There is one problem with this explanation. I never start off sleeping on my face. It’s when someone comes into my room to wake me or drop off something on my dresser that they see me sleeping on my face. And once I’m asleep, how do I stop myself from rolling over onto my face? I realize I should probably look into a way to darken my room, because my bedroom has two exterior walls, each with it’s own window. And the corner where these two walls meet faces east. So my natural instinct when the sun is up before I am is to bury my face in a pillow (or three). I don’t know of an option that prevents me from rolling onto my face. At least nothing that isn’t painfully binding.

I moisturize. I keep my face clean. I use mineral make up. I don’t sit in outdoor light without some kind of protection on my face. So what’s the deal, forehead? Why this desire to make me even more self-conscious than I already am?

Foreheads are jerks.


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