I have an imperfect relationship with my nose. In short: I live with it, I accept it, but it does not please me. Because it is part ofmy cultural heritage, Allure magazine tells me I must love and embrace it, etc, etc, but it's a nose that's hard to love. Like an evil despot, it dictates how I wear my hair and how I do my make-up and where I stand in pictures. People with good noses are free from this kind of oppressive vanity. They can part their hair in the center. I find this incredibly galling and hateful.
My nose obsession involves a little game called "People Whose Noses Are Better Than Mine" that I play when I'm on the bus or subway. Contrary to what it says in all the guidebooks, New York is not known for good noses. Minneapolis, Chicago, Milwaukee - bow we're talking great noses, we're talking noses of near perfection.* But New York - not so much. It is for this very reason that I can cope with living in this city - because I know that the percentage of People Whose Noses Are Better Than Mine will be lower than in, for instance, Houston or Los Angeles, where below average noses are melted down like scrap metal.
In New York, there are, on any given bus, a handful of Good Noses. And I worship the people attached to them. I grant them my undying admiration and respect. I have even gone so far as to date many of them as part of an extended nasal eugenics experiment. I am happy to report that Fauxhawk has a Very Good Nose. (I am sorry to say that it is not a Superlative Nose, but his Abudant Head of Hair and Impressive Calves compensate for whatever tiny imperfections his nose may have.)
After all, I cannot be too careful when it comes to passing along my questionable nose DNA. I have future generations to consider.
*Perfection is difficult to define here, but it emcompasses more than just a little button or sky jump nose. I like a little irregularity, too. Rossy de Palma (above) can rock her crazy nose like no one else.
Photograph of Rossy de Palma by Marcel Hartmann.
