"One, two, three..." 
I started counting. 
"...seven, eight.." 
I counted endlessly. 
No, I was not counting how many LEGO humans I had for my small cottage, like me a few years ago. Instead, I was counting for that endless, so-called process of being an adult that made me shed a tear every, single, time. 
Whenever I follow my parents and enter a store , the first and the most important section I visit is the hygiene and cosmetics section. When I take a left turn from the water bottle section, there are multiple big stands with shimmering and sparkling line ups of trending cosmetics. With a logo on the top, on the image of an advertisement, there are pictures of models holding the products elegantly. I take a few steps towards the advertisement, and carefully stare at the models' faces, like I am a model critic of Christian Dior's S/S fashion show in Milan. The final critiques that I sharply write for those models are the same, all the time. Eyes are like a doe, nose is straight as their future model career path. Lips are plumpy, and jawline– so sharp, it can cut a paper. Then my fingers automatically reach to that small and flat advertisement billboard. They slowly start to point at the model's cheek, sliding through to her chin. By looking at it, I could see their flawless, glowing skin. 
 My second to last sentence of the critique is that "Most importantly, they have such clear skin; clear as a marble that is filled out of glacier water." 
Fingers come back to my face from the billboard. As they land on my face, I feel that sudden change. It's bumpy. I can feel five hundred different kinds of bumps. 
My last sentence of the critique is "What an opposite compared to me; it's like silk and asphalt."  
The critique is not for the models. It is for me, the critic. When I murmured my last few words of the critique, I feel that one invisible hand pushing my shoulders down. I could never be as pretty as them. We are like different creatures. Aliens to each other.  
Sighing, I turn my body to the opposite side of the section. Contrasting to the cosmetics section, there is that one matte and black stand. I carry my feet there. I pick up my usual– 40 counts of acne patches.  
It was the only thing that I bought from this section since I turned twelve. From when I turned that age, I started noticing something different on my face. There were numerous bumps everywhere. When I woke up, they multiplied. I tried to calm them down. It turned out they are way more stubborn than me. They raged at me instead, turning themselves red as tomatoes. 
A few months after my twelfth birthday, my nickname was ripe tomato. Classmates also started to notice my face going terribly red because of those acne. When they tease me about it and when my anger follows after that, they teased me with a nickname called burst-out tomatoes. They would never know how I started avoiding eating tomatoes because of them.  
My mom called my acne the process of being an adult. Seriously? I don't think so. If this was a process of being an adult, when I turn twenty, my whole body might be covered in acne. If I am becoming an adult, I should be proud of myself. I should be proud of my mature attitude. But, that is not what is happening. To me, this is something I want to cover up. I want to conceal it so nobody can recognize it. 
That thought made me wear a facemask for the next whole semester. I was happy and relieved that I could hide it from anyone; nobody will comment on my face. I was comforted by the fact that nobody could see me. A real me. Ugly part of me should not be me. It is something that I should not have. This mindset continued for multiple months. 
It was a cold winter after the first semester. As always, I picked up my face mask, put it on naturally, and went outside for a quick walk. 
"It's finally the season that trees show what they really look like." 
As my sister pointed to a quite big oak tree, I followed her finger tip. 
"Was that oak tree this big? Wasn't it shorter than you back in summer break?" 
I said, pretty surprised by its growth. 
"Well, yeah. But, you know, everything grows. Even you grew up. Aren't you taller than mom?" 
She said, looking at me. 
"Isn't it so funny? The Wang family planted that tree this spring. In summer, it had such beautiful big leaves– I wasn't even able to see a branch. It was quite small back then. It was a baby tree. But now, it has grown larger. Now it's a young adult tree." 
She continued, giggling. 
While she giggled for her humor, I pondered. The tree grows and shows its scrawny appearance. Those rough branches are still part of the tree. After this turbulent season, beautiful green leaves are going to grow back. 
But why am I not like that tree? Why am I still hiding behind this piece of fabric, pretending like half of my face is not part of me? Why am I blocking the thought that it will get better at some point of time? 
Now I started to understand what my mom meant by the process of being an adult.  
Our process of being "something" is very stormy and chaotic. My leaves can fall sometimes. Maybe, I might not have those cute flowers like cherry blossom trees standing elegantly next to me. Or perhaps, my branches can be too rough; it might need some time to get a bit smoother. 
No matter what happens, I am me. I am me, with a partly rotten leaf. I am me, with that single peeled off branch.  
I am me, with that quite a few red bumps on your skin. 
"It is actually funny." 
I replied, giggling together. 
As I went back home, I threw off my inner face mask and put it in the little hole of rocky asphalt sidewalk. I stepped on it firmly, so that it can never be fished out and pressed my shoulders.