Freckle and hide

"Freckleface! freckleface!" the other kids would point to me and laugh. I know their words did not come from a loving place. Let's face it, kids are mean.

I was very self-conscious about my freckled face. And who could blame me? Let's review my role models: Howdy Doody, Pippi Longstocking, Alfred E. Neuman. Even adults were vague: "Aww, look at his freckles." Did that mean "Aww, look how adorable he is" or "Aww, I know a surgeon who can take care of that"?


What, me worry?

I strongly identified with kids who had measles or chicken pox. When I was 8 I heard that I could get rid of my freckles by rubbing lemon juice on my skin. So I took the bottle of ReaLemon from my parents' fridge, went into the bathroom, and washed my face with the juice. I swore the freckles faded, but ultimately all I got was burning skin and a sore behind for using up all the lemon juice. I resigned myself to living with my affliction.

Over time the freckles faded and I stopped feeling like a leper. But this week I passed a sign on Grand Street that resurrected my pain of living with freckles.



Sal's establishment, which straddles Chinatown and Little Italy, is attached to a nail salon. Now, I have some questions. Is Sal a petite Asian lady or an old Italian man? Is the freckle removed by scraping it off with a nail tip? Does Sal need a professional license to practice freckle removal? If you want to have more than one freckle removed does Sal send you to Cousin Tony's Professional Removal of Freckles? Is freckling considered so unsightly in the Asian and Italian communities that they need a storefront dedicated to it?

I don't know the answers, but I have an idea. Sal is an old Italian man who does things the old-fashioned way. "Come here and sit down, sonny," he says to me. "Wait here. I'll be right back." Then he shuffles off to the back of the store and calls to his wife Anna, "Cara, bring me the lemon juice!"