There was one face that most women wanted, a face they’d gladly trade their own to have. Trade their chunky nose, their plump jawline, an overbite, diminished lips. They wanted the face that men idolized: heart-shaped with round sky-blue eyes fringed by dark lashes, brows coal-black, features fine as if chiseled, all framed by a hood of ash-blonde tresses that graced both shoulders. White women in their twenties and thirties placed their online orders for That Face in droves. Truck fleets operated all hours of the night throughout the country to keep up with the demand for delivery. That Face sold like snowblowers after the first blizzard; like hotcakes at a mountain hikers’ breakfast.

That Face was soon in the checkout lines at Trader Joe’s, staring at computer screens in libraries, on street corners waiting for buses. Even when dressed in linen or denim or gabardine, the same face appeared on various shoulders, over and over again. It didn’t matter what cap the women donned, whether they smiled or frowned, secured their hair into chignons or left it sailing. That Face was everywhere. And eventually, it began to evoke a weary distrust among the populace. Especially for those women who looked in a mirror and saw themselves repeated. Public life had become monotonous, and they felt anonymous.

The manufacturer admitted, in fine print on the bottom of the shipping box, that once adhered to the head, That Face could not be easily removed. Hot water compresses were applied, solutions of distilled water and Citra Solv, baking soda on toothbrushes, stinging lotions, even windshield ice scrapers were employed. The results of these efforts left complexions with deep dents, blistered eruptions, and angry rashes that did not heal. These faces showed pain and were painful to view. Those who did look couldn’t help but flinch at the sight.

From then on, women with toffee-toned, ebony, umber, olive, bronze, caramel, and russet skin were esteemed. Those were the women sought to lead corporations and preside over courtrooms. Those were the ones who danced through commercials and occupied TV ads. Who wore the caftans and suede boots from the upper-end catalogues. The public flocked to buy the products they touted, grateful to see shiny black manes and brown kinked curls, relieved to view genuine expressions of joy and triumph on the faces of these beautiful women.