Forty-Six and the Forehead Betrayal”
Let’s talk about betrayal. Not the kind where someone eats the last slice of pizza you were saving. No, this was more personal. This was forehead betrayal.
It started two days ago, right at the top right of my forehead—tucked neatly by the hairline. A little tenderness. A faint pulse. The kind of thing you notice but think, "Eh, maybe I bumped my head on a cabinet." (Because at 46, that’s a real possibility.)
But oh no. It wasn’t a bump. It was Earl. A zit with ambition. A two-day brewing, slowly-rising, skin-pulsing, mood-destroying cystic situation that made it very clear: I was not in charge anymore.
Earl didn’t just show up. He announced himself. Subtly at first, like, “Hey, don’t mind me—I’m just going to hang out under the surface for a while.” Then BAM. Day three. Red. Angry. Inflamed. Ready for the stage like he’d just done a full skincare sabotage course on MasterClass.
And you know where he parked himself? Not smack-dab in the middle where I could hide him with concealer and a little humor. No, Earl is smarter than that. He went rogue. Right at the hairline. Too high for a hat, too low for bangs, and exactly where your eye goes when someone says, “You look tired.”
Even the corgis knew. Cooper sniffed the air like something was off. Willow gave me her famous side-eye of disappointment. Mogwai stood on his hind legs to inspect it. Winston barked at my head like I had smuggled an intruder under my skin. Baxter tried to help… by licking it. Bless him.
So what did I do? What any normal, rational adult would:
Googled “can you get acne at 46?”
Cursed my follicles.
Named the zit Earl because it felt like it had a LinkedIn account.
Whispered threats into the mirror.
Tried hot compresses, ice, toothpaste, and just a hint of Catholic guilt for good measure.
Nothing worked. Earl stayed. Proud. Puffy. Red as a stop sign. I showed up to a Zoom call and I swear someone’s screen froze just as they were staring at my forehead. Zoom knew.
Here’s what I’ve accepted:
Getting older does not mean your skin gets the memo. You can have laugh lines and hormonal breakouts. You can be wise and visibly inflamed. You can have five degrees, five corgis, and still wake up one morning looking like you just lost a battle with puberty.
But you know what? I made it through. Earl is finally retreating. He's deflating like a beach ball after Labor Day. The redness is down. The drama has passed. But the emotional scar? That lingers.
To anyone else waking up with a surprise visitor on their forehead—especially one with a two-day plan of attack—I see you. I salute you. And I highly recommend naming it. Somehow, it helps.
Here’s to being 46… with the skin of a teenager and the attitude of a very tired grown-up.
—Dr. Nick
(Still fabulous. Still moisturized. Still at war with rogue forehead zits.)
