My secret is when I was fifteen I acquired the nickname "Whiskers" for about a year.
Back then, I sometimes felt like this applied to me:
One particular morning, after a late night hanging with friends, I had the hardest time waking up. Shocking, I know. When I managed to get up and walk into the bathroom, I looked like DEATH. Kind of like my example pic.
No time to shower, I hurried and washed my face, put on some makeup . . . and when that didn't help the look much, I curled my hair.
While curling my bangs, the iron slipped from tired fingers and landed on my cheek. Basically, curling iron plus tired me, meant complete and total humiliation. I went to school that day with a 1 inch curling iron barrel roll across my right cheek. Nothing I did with my hair hid that hideous purple-brown mark.
My snarky history teacher had to say something. "Erin, whoever you've been making out with needs to shave, because that's a nasty whisker burn."
People laughed. I wanted to die.
Hence, the nickname whiskers.