One night, I was watching TV while mindlessly checking the landscape of my chin. I felt something. I assumed it was a blemish, but it wasn't. A trip to the mirror revealed the ugly truth. This was worse than a blemish.
This sinister demon keeping residence on my face... was chin hair!
Eeks! What is that?
Bad enough, chin hair on a woman, but this was a chin hair on steroids. I couldn't believe it. The thing was a quarter inch long, at least. It had hidden itself so well, curled under the curvature of my jaw line so tightly that I hadn't noticed it for how long? I have no idea!
I'm no stranger to facial hair. I sport what's referred to as peach fuzz and it's not uncommon for me to have a wiry hair occasionally. Pluck! Be gone! I banish you from the kingdom of Faceopotamia! Perhaps it's a genetic gift from my father. He did, in fact, sport a beard of his own.
Very fine blond hair blankets my face if I let it do its thing. However, I'm not a very good sport about this facial hair thing and therefore, I get rid of it with a dainty little battery operated personal shaver that makes my lady beard experience seem more feminine. It's a cute little shaver. I appreciate that. I'd be horrified to have to use a Mach 20 - or however many blades Gillette has come up with for men to shear themselves with these days.
As a teen, I worked for a time in a nursing home in the developmentally disabled wing. There was a woman who didn't speak, didn't walk on her own, and family didn't visit her. She seemed happy, however. She had very long chin hairs and I always wondered why nobody plucked them for her. Was it because she didn't go out in public? Was it "not my job" for any employee of the nursing home? Were they afraid she'd punch them if they messed with her facial hair? Perhaps they had tried. I do not know.
The burning question in my mind is this: Who will pluck my chin hairs and shave my peach fuzz when I'm old? Who, I ask you... WHO? Whoooooooo.........?
And who will pluck yours?
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