When I was small, all eyes were on my nose. I was considered a cute little girl, but whenever anyone commented on my looks, someone, usually my mother, would say, “We’ll see.” Everyone knew what that meant. History is full of girls who were cute one day and then boom, the nose grew. And my female relatives had known them all. They continued their nose watch, tracking my rhinal growth like traders tracking stock on Wall Street.

By the time I was an adolescent, it was clear that I had been somewhat spared. I had a hooked nose lite. I resembled my maternal relatives, but the nose wasn’t quite bad enough to invite comparison to a puppet. The consensus among my female relatives was that even though my nose wasn’t horrific, it could use a little improvement. “You just need the tip removed.”

When I was eighteen, my father and I headed off to a consultation with a plastic surgeon, “the best in Newport Beach.” As I sat in this man’s well-appointed office and looked at the expansive ocean view, I wondered how he could take himself seriously. Judging by the framed diplomas all over the walls, he had spent many years studying at prestigious medical establishments. Here was somebody who could be saving a life somewhere, but instead he was looking forward to lopping off the tip of my nose. As he explained the procedure, what bothered me the most wasn’t the idea of having my nose broken, but having my nose broken by him. I just didn’t respect him enough.

My father was relieved that I had decided against a nose job. He thought it was way too expensive. “You can buy me a car instead,” I suggested. “Your nose is fine,” he replied, “and you don’t need a car.”

Despite the ominous warnings from my female relatives that noses keep growing well into adulthood, I managed to graduate from college, get married, and have children, all with my original nose. I hadn’t actually thought about my nasal imperfections in years; after two pregnancies, I had found other body parts far worthier of obsession.

I had, however, thought about the Toucan. Whenever anyone complained about his nose, I always shared the story of the confident librarian who had overcome her formidable rhinal challenge. Naturally, people wanted to know why she had so much confidence. “I don’t know. She just did,” I always replied. Little did I dream that I would someday find out.