The Man Who Tried to Return His Face

Let me tell you about Reginald. Reginald is the sort of man who buys a new personality with every Amazon Prime subscription. Last month, it was minimalism. The month before, it was competitive axe-throwing.

This particular Tuesday, Reginald returned from a clinic looking... different. His cheekbones were sharper than my nib, his jawline could cut glass, and his eyebrows had been sculpted into two perfect, judgmental commas.

"I've had it done," he announced, swirling a green smoothie. "Facial balancing. I've finally aligned my chakras with my bone structure."

I peered at him over my spectacles. "Reginald," I said, "your face looks like it was designed by an architect who hates curves."

He ignored me. He spent the next hour showing me photos of his "new profile" from every conceivable angle. He was obsessed. He started referring to his old self as "Pre-Correction Reginald," as if he had been a rough draft.

Then came the crisis.

He was invited to a Zoom gala—a high-stakes meeting of the "Aesthetically Gifted." He prepped for hours. Perfect lighting. Perfect tie. Perfect background.

He joined the call. He smiled.

And then, his face did something it wasn't supposed to do. Perhaps it was the strain of holding such a rigid expression, or perhaps it was the sheer weight of his new ego, but his left cheekbone began to... sag. Not dramatically. Just enough to create a slight, asymmetrical droop.

Panic. Pure, undiluted panic.

He frantically tried to adjust his camera angle, but it only made it look like one side of his face was melting. He started pushing his cheek up with his hand, trying to hold it in place, which made him look like he was attempting to perform a solo Heimlich maneuver on himself.

Finally, in a fit of pique, he yelled at the screen: "Unacceptable! I demand a refund!"

The host, a woman with a perfectly symmetrical face, replied coolly: "Reginald, darling, you can't return a face. Unless you're planning to put it in the original packaging?"

Reginald has since taken down all his profile pictures. He now wears a scarf indoors and refers to his reflection as "a work in progress."

As for me, I’ve started writing my memoirs. I’m calling them: "How to Keep Your Face On Without Looking Like a Melting Ice Cream Cone." Bonus chapter: 'When Your Jawline Files for Divorce.'