My Chin

I have a spot on my chin.  It’s not a zit, really.  It might be an ingrown hair, or maybe a wen.  Maybe some witch or another has cursed me.  No matter how often I remove it, it comes back.

It’s not discolored, and barely noticeable to anyone but me.  It’s not a wart.  I don’t know what it is, but it’s there.  Most of the time.

No one has ever said anything about it, but I’m not sure if that’s because they don’t see it or they might know that I always carry a gun. 

It’s not a freckle, and it’s not a mole.  I still don’t know what it is.

Sometimes I think that my wife has done something to me in the night when I’m asleep so that she can remove it at a later time.  No, she’s most likely too nice to do something like that.  But maybe not.  Men in general, and me in particular, never really know what goes on in a woman’s mind.  So maybe she HAS done something that makes this spot seem bigger some days, and gone on others.

Last night, in bed, my wife brought out the tweezers, a pin, a cotton ball, and a flashlight.  Utilizing the keen intuitive mind that was issued to me in the police academy, I concluded immediately that surgery on my chin was imminent.

I was right.

After much of said surgery, the wife removed a tiny fleshy pearl, not unlike other pearls that have been previously removed from the same spot.  I knew when it was removed because my wife said, and I can quote this, “Eureka—AHA!!”

And so it goes—it’ll come back some day.  My wife claims to not know what this small blemish might be, but I now know.

It’s chin gristle.


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