"Who hit you?" "What is that?" "What happened to your head?" These are the questions of the most forward, innocent, unabashed or drunk. Many silently avert their gaze. Some steal a second look. None who look upon me are unaffected. Even those who insist they are unaffected, are compelled to the act of insistence, often in steadfast silence.

When I was young and in rage, I began laser treatments for the long painful process of having my birthmark removed, convinced that it was the source of my intolerable youthful ill-at-ease. Each session would leave a gigantic purple bruise for weeks on my forehead. There would be many a session, many weeks with the bruise, many long trips to the exulted doctor in the concrete and steel high-rise in the distant city, and all paid by a well-meaning relative. Small price, I thought, for a lifetime of relief from carrying such a burden.
After two sessions a good friend brought me to my senses, "I don't know why you're doing that, I always thought it looked cool." No one had ever said that to me. Yeah, these are the people I want to hang with, the ones who can accept exactly how I appear, who can look upon the fingerprint of God and appreciate the handiwork. Now wherever I go, whomever I meet, with no impulse on my part, I clear space. I raise the tenor. I force the issue. I induce the decision. For I wear my heart on my forehead.