This is one of those posts that give blogs a bad name. So if you dislike self-obsessed, naval gazing writing, avert your eyes. You've been duly warned.

I'm sprouting a mole. On my face. In precisely the same location where my grandma had a big juicy one distinguished by about a dozen short, spiney hairs.

People, I sell skin care. (Well, “sell“ is a euphemism. I keep a lot of skin care in the closet. Sell would imply generating income.) So me and the old epidermis are pretty tight. I'm good to my skin. I wear sunscreen and hats and smear on lots of expensive serums and creams. And now it does this? In public? Without asking?

Oh, and don't even begin to think of it as a “beauty mark.“ This angry, red protrusion looks like it belongs on the bum of an aging bull dog. And I suspect it's only half grown.

I've always said, no plastic surgery. But faced with this alien mass (Mom, I swear, it's not melanoma), I can tell you the endgame. This bad boy's headed for the biohazard bag. Snip snip. Chop chop. Hasta la vista, baby.