Overnighters

I can't believe the hair that can grow on my face overnight! No kidding, those two-inch overnighters baffle me. Why they don't grow on my head like that, I'll never understand.

Removing them is a real challenge when you have tri-focals. You have to have just the right light, the right tweezers, and then find the right angle on your progressive lenses.

I guess I've inherited my grandmother's peach-fuzz face. That's bad enough, but to wake up and find one protruding from your chin like a thorn--now that's depressing. Years ago, I complained to my husband, Bill, and all I got was, "Put a bow on it!" Thanks. (He thought he was being funny--humpf.)

Speaking of Bill (God rest his soul), he had a sense of humor that often challenged my burgeoning ego. I remember slaving over a dress for an event we were chaperoning at Bill's high school. I thought I looked gorgeous! When he didn't say anything, I asked him. "Honey, did you like how I looked tonight?" His lengthy pause should have clued me in that he was trying to control his humor. "Huh? Honey?" I persisted. "What did you think?"

He couldn't help himself, "You looked amazing ... except for the two-inch hair hanging from your chin."

WHAT?! Bill left the room chuckling as I ran for the bathroom. Sure enough! There it was, it all in its thorny glory. "Where did that come from?" I bellowed. From a distance, I heard, "You'll need a wrench!"

At least back then, I didn't need trifocals to see. From the rude awakening that I was vulnerable to such an occurrence, I developed a whisker-diligence of noble proportion. It became a daily hunt.

Fast forward thirty years to my new husband, Robert, who is always chomping at the bit to be helpful. "D-a-r-l-i-n-g, you have a hair on your lovely chin--would you like me to get it for you?" Robert would never kid about something like that because he raised girls. Me? I lived on a testosterone farm!

Rob ran for his collection of tweezers while I poised myself before the bathroom mirror. I wasn't prepared. "Yeowwww!" Let it be noted: A slow-motion whisker removal by a gentle soul not wishing to hurt you is far more painful than a hearty yank.

You might be thinking: Buy a magnifying mirror with lights. I tried that, but I got overwhelmed! It was my grandmother's face staring back at me--pure fuzz.

I'm so hair-conscious now, it's terrible. I've become like the whisker police. I met a lovely elder at the grocery store, and I can't tell you a single thing she said. I was too preoccupied with the unplucked hairs on her chin! (That is sooooo bad.)

You might be thinking: this is the weirdest blog I've ever wasted my time reading. But in my defense, a good laugh can boost health, and who knows, maybe there's a wanton whisker needing your attention.

In the meantime, if you pass my lovely home someday and see a bathrobe-clad figure standing on the front porch holding a mirror in front of her face--it's me. Honk if you understand.