I am not one to judge people’s looks—oh, no!—but when you leave a movie and all you can remember is the star’s giant mole, it can certainly have you tossing your popcorn. Some luminaries (e.g., Cindy Crawford) can wear such a thing with charm and ease and it actually becomes an asset, especially if they can move its location around at whim. With others (no names mentioned), it becomes like the rollerball in Raiders of the Lost Arc, steamrolling over their looks, their movie, and their entire career with more menace than a wronged whore on speed.
I never understood why some stars will go to great pains—literally—to enhance their looks, having their faces slashed and tightened on a regular basis, but they won’t go that extra inch and get their freaking moles burned off. Even I had it done when, on TV, I was starting to look like an Italian fishwife out of a neorealist film! I was apprehensive about dealing with the situation because I’m generally a denial queen, but the process took all of two minutes, it wasn’t the least bit painful (you get a local anaesthetic), and there’s no trace remaining of what used to be a bulbous orb growing faster than Miley Cyrus‘s severance package. What’s more, it only cost the price of a dinner for two at a fairly nice restaurant. And now I can go to an even lovelier boite without being ashamed! Come on, do it, all you normally more vanity-friendly stars! I’ll even give you a recommendation: Dr. Sherwin Parikh at 212 334 3774. Tell him I’m your mole.