Monday afternoon, tape removed, 4:40 p.m.
She never lets up. Advisor Girl lectures me on forehead scrunching every time we meet. No 
doubt she noticed it at our first encounter but was yet comfortable enough to bark instructions aloud. That she saved for our second meeting.
Today, I have a two hour conversation, a serious one about the future, with scotch tape blazoned across my forehead and between my eyes. “Don’t scrunch,” she scolds. There are myriad reasons, all important. An errant eyebrow raises now as I type and I chastise myself. Scrunching forehead sends a message of worry to the receiver, she explains. Meaning: When you see me in person and my forehead scrunches, you will think me insincere. Get it?
“What is this?” she continues, pointing willy-nilly at my face. “I have told you to stop scrunching and there you go again. As soon as you get excited, you scrunch the forehead. Talk without that; especially now with the filming.”
“Do you have tape? Go get it. Go get it now.” It’s only Monday; early in the week for erring naughty child scolding. Isn’t that more of a sluggish Wednesday afternoon sort of thing? Obediently, I get the tape. A piece is slapped vertically between my eyes and horizontally across each line deeply etched in my forehead since grade school. Some of us worried, ok? Some of us took life seriously at an early age. We had important shit to do when we were ten and the result–scrunchy, furrowed forehead.
With the addition of tape, I am aware how much I scrunch. The tape pulls taut each time I answer. I relax the furrow but fear now I might be squinting. I believe this is one of those “no control” things like men claim of snoring, but I realize it may actually be a skill to master. If you see me in Safeway all alien looking, remind me to remove the tape.
Is this part of some obscure lesson? She chatters on as if nothing is askew. Don’t we always have conversations with clients with tape attacking half their faces? She plots my future while I see if I can make a pout without moving the tape. Just passing time while I figure out the lesson.
It’s simpler than I think. Forehead control, evidently, is going to be a big deal in the next few weeks as we make our way to film; not just of the You Tube variety, but the local and national televised variety as well. She says she does not care for fame. The tape across my forehead acts as botox, masking my shock. She does not strike me as the wallflower type.
For her, the spotlight is uncomfortable. I reassure her I can handle heaps of spotlight for both of us. I imagine it includes new dresses, pumps and my words fashioning themselves into bestsellers. Spotlight? No problem.
She is serious. In her world, it is an unwelcome intrusion. She’s experienced the light’s glare and found it neither warm nor comforting, but harsh and intrusive. Spoken like a girl who does not spill her secrets to a million strangers everyday.
I remind her of my mothering skills. She may be teaching me business but nobody mothers like me, girlfriend. No one is more adept at protecting chickens. I assure her there is room for one more. Who knew my chicken coop, with its vast collection of biological and not-so-biological little ones, would someday house a witch?
The Duchess Diaries 