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9 Permanent Press “I got your nose,” my uncle would say to me, grabbing hold and twisting, twisting it right off until there it was sticking out between two thick fingers. I wanted it back, of course, not knowing who I’d be without it. All I had then was just a nub of a nose, nothing like the way it would grow. Given the way it turned out— too big, too ready to be sniffing into places where it had no business— maybe he just should have kept it. ...

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