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Byline: Cara Birnbaum.
The shadowy divot above my left eyebrow came, ironically, from a dermatologist's attempt to "clean out" a patch of stubborn adolescent acne. For almost 20 years since, I've wished I'd told the man in the lab coat to leave the spots alone, a sentiment I expressed casually to my husband one night at our favorite restaurant. His response was disheartening. "You can barely see it," he said. "It blends in with the lines."
The lines? As he backpedaled frantically, I whipped out a mirror to inspect my 33-year-old forehead. The pale crater was, indeed, bisected by a few wispy lines. "The light's really bad in here," my husband mumbled ...