This morning I dashed off to my appointment with the plastic surgeon. Ha! I wonder how many other times in my life I will legitimately write such a line? It was not for anything exciting. A few months ago I was listening to Dr Karl‘s JJJ podcast, and heard him talking about how moles were more prone to becoming cancerous if they were traumatised, and I have this mole…

It has never bothered me much before, but it is not tiny, and lives on the corner of my torso near where my right arm connects. Small Z is obsessed with it. I have told her “Don’t touch the ow-y!” many times, but even when she is practically asleep, her little hand creeps out to pat it. At one point she poked it so hard, it bled. I noticed it was also a little bit discoloured, and asked my doctor about it.

She suggested that if I was concerned, it should get the chop – and because of where it is, it would be good to get a nice neat job. Hence, the plastic surgeon. So I turned up this morning to his office, which had a range of what I can only assume were special plastic-surgeon annointed skincare products – $70 a pop – on the counter, as well as pamphlets for Restylane for ‘perfect looking lips’.

I began assuming that the guy I was going to see was going to be some champagne swilling oik who would sneer at my mole, blanch at the sight of my coldsore, and gently suggest I get some work done. Elsewhere on my body. As it turned out, he came into the waiting room to take me through to his office. He sat down. We chatted. I was somewhat discomfited by the fact that he was a fitter, balder, bespectacled version of Ricky Gervais. In fact, he was Ricky Gervais, post plastic surgery, with less hair.

He told me what he would do with my resident mole. I explained Small Z’s fascination with it, and also what I had heard about mole aggravation. He said that was more related to continuous, ongoing irritations, and said that people who smoked clay pipes were prone to lip cancers, due to continually injuring their lip with the pipestem. I suggested in that case maybe I wouldn’t bother being locally anaesthetised and cut into, and he said “Well, I wouldn’t if I were you.” A welcome surprise.

He even suggested that if I got rid of the mole, Small Z might think I had been replaced with someone else. We finished the consultation with him saying, “I’m one of those strange plastic surgeons who don’t always want to put everyone under the knife.” Ha. Who would have thought it? So my mole remains intact. It’s comfortable where it is, and Small Z will have to learn some respect, dammit! (And this includes not watering the ‘ow-y’ with her watering can in the bath – her latest game of glee.)