Mary Keller lived on the same street as me. I lived in the middle of the block, and she was down at the corner. She used to have a brother, Tommy. I played with Tommy when we were little. He’d be a wizard and I’d be a knight, and we’d fight all kinds of dragons, goblins, and stuff. Tommy was real fun. But then he drank paint and died.
His parents blamed me. I remember being at the funeral, and Tommy’s mom yelling, “I bet you told him it’s a magic potion, you sick little bastard.” She slapped me hard enough to leave a print on my face, and my parents did nothing. Later on, they told me, “She needed to get it out. It wasn’t your fault, but sometimes you have to let people vent.” Lot of sense that made to a fucking nine year old I can tell you, however, as the years have gone by, I think I see the point. Tommy’s mom didn’t want to blame her son for being too stupid not to drink paint.
I still knew Mary Keller by the time I turned sixteen. She was fourteen then and well on her way to growing up beautiful. I didn’t know Mary very well. Yeah, we walked the same route home from school, chatting a bit, but the only real reason we talked is because, well, Tommy. The thing is, Tommy sort of made us feel closer than I think we actually were. Death has an odd way of bonding people.
So Mary is this developing beauty, who even at fourteen is smart enough to know why the guys in her class turn to the side whenever she looks at them. One day we’re walking home from school. It’s the Fall. I remember the leaves had almost all come down. And Mary says to me, casual as you please, “I’m going to cut my face off.”
She was half way to another topic when I realized I needed to ask, “What did you just say?”
“What? About the face?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to cut it off. Or up. I think just cutting it up would be best.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what boys see first. They see your face, and then they know if they want to have sex with you.”
“Guys see a lot more than your face. Actually, they‘re probably not looking at your face first,” I said this thinking it was the right thing to mention. While there may have been a more eloquent way to say dudes go from tits to face, if they even go that far up, I didn’t have it then or now. Of course, I forgot who I was talking to.
Mary reminded me by saying, “So should I cut my boobs off too?”
I immediately replied, “No. Absolutely not. Carving up your face will keep guys away.” Then I thought to add, “Why exactly are you thinking about doing this?”
Mary proceeded to tell me she’d been increasingly aware of the boys in her class, particularly the way they leered at her. Sexual subtlety in teenage boys is nonexistent. I told her that was an unfortunate part of life. Part of growing up, for girls, meant learning how to deal with leering men. She didn’t think it should be, and I realized she was right. Then she asked why I didn’t look at her the way the other boys did. Over the years, many women have asked me this question in one form or another. There is no good answer. Sadly, at sixteen I thought blunt honesty was the best policy. So I said, “I don’t find you attractive.” I would not be cured of this habit, or this response, until a woman in a bar stabbed me in the thigh with a broken ashtray.
Now, yes, I said Mary Keller was surely a developing beauty. However, I stand behind the notion that just because a woman is pretty does not make her attractive. Everyone knows there are certain qualities no amount of beauty can supersede. The sexual equation: if a woman or man is a perfect 10 and a raging Nazis, the desire to have sex with them lessens. Granted, it’s a sliding scale from person to person; I’ve known those sexual moral relativists who would say, “Yeah, she’s a racist fascist, but dem boobs and dat ass – damn, I gotta hit that.” However, I’m not one of them. Too bitchy, too nerdy, too cruel, too cloying, at some point it doesn’t matter how beautiful a person is, the desire to fuck them is decreased, sometimes all the way to zero. In the case of Mary Keller, I thought of her like a cousin, enough like family sex between us would feel awkward, hence, my lack of sexual attraction.
Still, back then I had enough sense to add, “That doesn’t mean you aren’t pretty. Just not to me. It’s like that sometimes.”
“I guess so.” She shifted her backpack from one shoulder to the other, “I just don’t like it. I mean, we went to the mall the other day, and this creepy old man, he looked like melting leather, the way he looked at me was the same as some of the boys in my class, and it made me feel… weird.”
“Fair enough, but scarring your face isn’t going to stop people from staring.”
“At least they’d be staring for a different reason.”
And she had a point. However, looking up the street I saw her mother sitting on the front steps, an empty bottle of white wine next to her. I knew anything that happened to Mary after Mrs. Keller saw us talking would fall on my shoulders. So I resolved to try saving Mary’s face.
I said, “Why not get like a veil and a robe? Something really, uh, billowy so you’ve got no shape, and covering your face is as good as scarring.”
She shrugged, “I could give it a try, but it feels like hiding. Like I’m the one who did something wrong.”
I started another suggestion, Mary cut me off, “You’re trying to be helpful, but I didn’t tell you because I’m looking for a way out, or like asking for permission.”
“Fair enough.”
That night she took a utility knife, and slashed her face from one side to the other, carving a Chelsea grin. She used to complain how people always told her: “A pretty girl like you should smile more.” Mary also managed to put an X in her forehead before her parents caught her, stopped her. For two weeks her mom got blitzed on box wine, and would stand under my bedroom window at night shouting, “You destroyed my children.” She never really bothered me because I knew she needed to vent. Naturally Mary got sent to a few doctors afterward. They probably tried to explain to her what she did was wrong without listening to her reasoning. I wouldn’t see her again until next year around the start of school. The look in her eyes – Mary never seemed more beautiful.
His parents blamed me. I remember being at the funeral, and Tommy’s mom yelling, “I bet you told him it’s a magic potion, you sick little bastard.” She slapped me hard enough to leave a print on my face, and my parents did nothing. Later on, they told me, “She needed to get it out. It wasn’t your fault, but sometimes you have to let people vent.” Lot of sense that made to a fucking nine year old I can tell you, however, as the years have gone by, I think I see the point. Tommy’s mom didn’t want to blame her son for being too stupid not to drink paint.
I still knew Mary Keller by the time I turned sixteen. She was fourteen then and well on her way to growing up beautiful. I didn’t know Mary very well. Yeah, we walked the same route home from school, chatting a bit, but the only real reason we talked is because, well, Tommy. The thing is, Tommy sort of made us feel closer than I think we actually were. Death has an odd way of bonding people.
So Mary is this developing beauty, who even at fourteen is smart enough to know why the guys in her class turn to the side whenever she looks at them. One day we’re walking home from school. It’s the Fall. I remember the leaves had almost all come down. And Mary says to me, casual as you please, “I’m going to cut my face off.”
She was half way to another topic when I realized I needed to ask, “What did you just say?”
“What? About the face?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to cut it off. Or up. I think just cutting it up would be best.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what boys see first. They see your face, and then they know if they want to have sex with you.”
“Guys see a lot more than your face. Actually, they‘re probably not looking at your face first,” I said this thinking it was the right thing to mention. While there may have been a more eloquent way to say dudes go from tits to face, if they even go that far up, I didn’t have it then or now. Of course, I forgot who I was talking to.
Mary reminded me by saying, “So should I cut my boobs off too?”
I immediately replied, “No. Absolutely not. Carving up your face will keep guys away.” Then I thought to add, “Why exactly are you thinking about doing this?”
Mary proceeded to tell me she’d been increasingly aware of the boys in her class, particularly the way they leered at her. Sexual subtlety in teenage boys is nonexistent. I told her that was an unfortunate part of life. Part of growing up, for girls, meant learning how to deal with leering men. She didn’t think it should be, and I realized she was right. Then she asked why I didn’t look at her the way the other boys did. Over the years, many women have asked me this question in one form or another. There is no good answer. Sadly, at sixteen I thought blunt honesty was the best policy. So I said, “I don’t find you attractive.” I would not be cured of this habit, or this response, until a woman in a bar stabbed me in the thigh with a broken ashtray.
Now, yes, I said Mary Keller was surely a developing beauty. However, I stand behind the notion that just because a woman is pretty does not make her attractive. Everyone knows there are certain qualities no amount of beauty can supersede. The sexual equation: if a woman or man is a perfect 10 and a raging Nazis, the desire to have sex with them lessens. Granted, it’s a sliding scale from person to person; I’ve known those sexual moral relativists who would say, “Yeah, she’s a racist fascist, but dem boobs and dat ass – damn, I gotta hit that.” However, I’m not one of them. Too bitchy, too nerdy, too cruel, too cloying, at some point it doesn’t matter how beautiful a person is, the desire to fuck them is decreased, sometimes all the way to zero. In the case of Mary Keller, I thought of her like a cousin, enough like family sex between us would feel awkward, hence, my lack of sexual attraction.
Still, back then I had enough sense to add, “That doesn’t mean you aren’t pretty. Just not to me. It’s like that sometimes.”
“I guess so.” She shifted her backpack from one shoulder to the other, “I just don’t like it. I mean, we went to the mall the other day, and this creepy old man, he looked like melting leather, the way he looked at me was the same as some of the boys in my class, and it made me feel… weird.”
“Fair enough, but scarring your face isn’t going to stop people from staring.”
“At least they’d be staring for a different reason.”
And she had a point. However, looking up the street I saw her mother sitting on the front steps, an empty bottle of white wine next to her. I knew anything that happened to Mary after Mrs. Keller saw us talking would fall on my shoulders. So I resolved to try saving Mary’s face.
I said, “Why not get like a veil and a robe? Something really, uh, billowy so you’ve got no shape, and covering your face is as good as scarring.”
She shrugged, “I could give it a try, but it feels like hiding. Like I’m the one who did something wrong.”
I started another suggestion, Mary cut me off, “You’re trying to be helpful, but I didn’t tell you because I’m looking for a way out, or like asking for permission.”
“Fair enough.”
That night she took a utility knife, and slashed her face from one side to the other, carving a Chelsea grin. She used to complain how people always told her: “A pretty girl like you should smile more.” Mary also managed to put an X in her forehead before her parents caught her, stopped her. For two weeks her mom got blitzed on box wine, and would stand under my bedroom window at night shouting, “You destroyed my children.” She never really bothered me because I knew she needed to vent. Naturally Mary got sent to a few doctors afterward. They probably tried to explain to her what she did was wrong without listening to her reasoning. I wouldn’t see her again until next year around the start of school. The look in her eyes – Mary never seemed more beautiful.
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