Do you remember my lovely-then-momentarily-embarrassing story about The Comedian? Well, go back and read it.
I’m ONLY 42. Why has my body decided I need to have a chin hair? What good does this do?
Well, earlier this week I spotted another hair – who am I kidding, it would more realistically and less kindly be called a whisker – coming out of my cheek.
Now, my dark haired friends will probably tell me to fuck off since they have had to deal with bleaching or waxing their dark arm / face / leg hairs since puberty. I am very blonde everywhere and therefore can avoid shaving my legs for a few days without anyone noticing (I don’t, for what it’s worth).
But for me, this is a most unwelcome development. Old women have face hairs. Wrinkly Grandmothers have whiskers on their chins. NOT ME.
It reminds me of having my height measured before my surgery last year. The nurse informed me I was 5’9 3/4″ and I said “no that’s not right I am 5’10 1/2″” and when she told me I was wrong I said:
“I’m sorry but I don’t accept that reality.”
Because shrinking 3/4 of an inch means I’m getting older and have to start thinking about calcium and early osteoarthritis and all that.
Yet I feel better now – mentally and physically – than I did at 25. So I can’t be a shrinking woman with whiskers.
I suppose I can be those things and also be a bad ass mofo with a new bike and no fear and a sex machine under my bed and three drawers of sex toys and restraints – right??