Still Not Talking, So I Must Write

I have a two-inch burn scar along my left jaw line. It's kind of rakish and pirate-like, not that I was going for that look. No, I was just trying to curl my hair in time for the Saturday matinee, and miscalculated for the first time since I started using that genius but lethal appliance.

At first I hoped I had "caught it in time." I rushed for a big wad of ice, and later slathered it with cocoa butter. It's in a spot that's hard for me to see. But not for everyone else, apparently, judging from the number of comments I get. The first one was Charles, backstage at Birdie. "What did you do to your FACE?" he yelped, even interrupting his own dirty joke for this exclamation, which is saying something. I gasped and slapped my hand over the evidence. "I don't want to talk about it." Now everyone was looking. "Don't be ashamed, Sam," said Shani, "We've all done it." Really? Everyone has DESTROYED THEIR OWN FACE at that age when Coco Chanel famously said we have the one we DESERVE???

Ugh. Now I have to talk about it at least three times a day, because no one seems to remember what their mamas told them about keeping their shock and horror at other peoples' disfigurement to themselves. The latest was Bethsy, from Jarrah's class, on my way to the car yesterday: "Miss Sam, are you doing art with us Wednesday? WHAT DID YOU DO TO YOUR FACE???"

Ugh ugh. I've heard all kinds of suggestions. Red or green concealer, from the two cosmetology students doing our hair on Birdie. Lavender oil from the massage therapist in the cast. Seeing it as my own "inexpensive laser peel" from my oh-so-helpful husband. Suggestions, Readers? You might as well weigh in, if I'm going to be reminded of my own stupidity on a daily basis anyway.

A couple people have asked in wonderment, "Why did you do that?" Because I'm a moron, that's why. Now that that's settled, can we talk about something else?

Like the sad fact that my voice is not back. On the contrary, I've been pretty much mute for two days. I'm feeling weirdly alone because of it, isolated in my own little bubble, and I don't think it's my imagination that shopkeepers and random chatty strangers are speaking a little louder and slower with that crinkly, sympathetic smile to show compassion for my apparent developmental challenges. I had to cancel my voice lesson. I can't talk on the phone. It's making me realize just how much of the airspace I suck up in the average conversation because everyone seems awfully silent. I want to urge everyone to talk, talk, talk--just natter on pointlessly about your day, if that's all you've got--BECAUSE I AM LONELY. Hearing about your struggles to reschedule your daughter's piano lesson would be better by far than all this nothing.

It also makes me see that I married a very quiet man. Our dinners have been crypt-like. You can hear chewing and that's about it. And why must Jarrah, who normally makes it her life's mission to interrupt my every sentence, has suddenly gone all enigmatic, too? No stories about school, no endless questions about why people get married and the layout of the solar system.

I can't take much more of this, people. I'm going to have to take up the drums.