Jen and I were nonchalantly driving down the road one fine day, set off to find grub/inhale grub/spill gossip in our alotted one-hour time frame when, thanks to the tiny ray of sunshine seeping in the car window, she spied an infiltrator on my face. And this is no zit we’re talking about here.
Jen: “You have something on your chin.”
She reaches for it. I lean toward her, my first thought being “EWWW BUG GET IT OFF GAH!”
Jen: “It’s attached!”
Me: “To what?”
Jen: “To YOU!”
Thank Jesus for flip-down mirrors.
Me: “OH MY GAWD!”
Me: “IT’S A HAIR! A WHISKER! ON MY CHIN! OH. MY. GAAAAWWWWDDD!!!!!”
Me: “Shut up, you Hussy! I have a whisker on my face! Like a man!”
Me: “IT’S NOT FUNNY! Have you ever had a hair on your chin?”
Please say yes.
Jen: “NO! Haaaaaaaaaaaaaahaaaaaaaaaaaaahaaaaaaaaaaaaaahaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”
Did I mention she’s a Hussy?
Yes, that’s right, Folks. I had a whisker. And not just any whisker. The recurring whisker!
I’ve had to remove it from its cosmically precise place on my chin three times since then! I am, forcibly, a Whisker Nazi!
Pretty soon I’ll look like this!
There will be sightings!
I have accepted the droopy boobs, the muffin top, the lack of sleep.
But this! I did not sign up for chin whiskers! I barely grow hair in my armpits!
(That’s a lie. I shave them every day, so I wouldn’t know if it actually grows or not. It probably doesn’t now, just by default.)
ANYWAY, me + hair is not good. I’ve shaved my arms since I was 11, just because I couldn’t stand the sight of hair on them. As soon as I got the go-ahead from Mama to start shaving my legs, I started shaving everything. Slick as a baby’s butt, that’s me!
(That’s a lie. I only shave my legs for special occasions in the winter-time. When it gets really bad, Chris will raise his eyebrows and proclaim, “You shaved your legs!” Nope, Honey. It’s just so long now that it’s smooth again!)
But, dammit, this just gives a whole new meaning to BEASTY!