Well, it’s official. He-who-shall-not-be-named has been named. No, not Voldemort, I am talking about my chin hair. Yes, it’s a he, because he is a pain in the ass.
The other day I was in Wal-Mart with my 9-year-old daughter Quinn. She’s a BFF in training, she’s gonna learn right. She knows to tell me if there’s something wrong with my appearance that might be embarrassing – crazy mom hair, boogers, bad breath, toilet paper stuck to your shoe, if something’s up- she won’t let you down. And she’ll do it so no one else hears, the girl’s got your back. So here we are, and she’s giving me the little people signal to bend down and come close. Uh-oh.
Quinn: (whispering)“ Sorry Mom, but you have Cat in the Hat hair .”
Me: “Um, what?”
Quinn: “ You know, on your chin, like The Cat in the Hat”
Me: “Awesome. Thank you.”
It’s Wal-Mart people. Home of everything scary you never want to see about people on full display. Things you only hope to unsee. This is after you close your gaping pie hole and steer your observant and very loud kid to another aisle at lightning speed. I’m cute enough to get by with this one. No one here will blink an eye. It’s like a reunion for circus people in here. So whatever, no emergency. It can wait.
How about you? Don’t lie, we’re all friends here, I know you have one, too. Maybe it doesn’t have a cool name like mine, but still. You look for it in the morning when you get ready, you check your mirror before getting out of the car, you feel for it while you’re talking on the phone. It’s all good.
But it’s like a ninja. Quick-like it springs out, like a half-inch, without warning. Now you are in public. You touch your chin out of habit to check and it’s there. No, no, no, f**k! Heart palpitations, mini panic attack.
This is almost always in the middle of a conversation with someone you really don’t know that well. Usually, it’s someone younger, more put together. Someone, you’re pretty sure might not even poop because they are just too classy for that, let alone have a chin hair. You must get away. Do they see it? Holy crap it’s really long. Retreat, retreat.
I really should carry tweezers. I know this. I’ve been caught like this before. But the truth is, I really am just not that invested in carrying around a bunch of shit in my purse. In fact, I hate carrying a purse. Which is really kinda weird, because in all other things I am quite prepared. I stock up on all sorts of things at home.
In case of illness, injury, famine, flood, pestilence, zombie apocalypse, whatever, I’ve got it. Same thing with vacations. I have it all, neatly and efficiently planned with a checklist. No seriously. But not my purse.
After having kids and learning to carry what little I personally needed in a diaper bag, and then, eventually eliminating said diaper bag, I have gotten used to not having much with me. Quite frankly was tired of lugging shit, but I digress.
For emergencies like this, it’s my husband to the rescue. Occasionally he just plucks it with his fingers. But his method of preference is usually a covert operation. He is a touchy-feely person. He’s a regular exhibitionist of PDA’s. (You know, public displays of affection).
While his antics may gain attention, they will not arouse suspicion. Arouse. LOL. Anyhoo, he leans in close like he is whispering sweet nothings or kissing me. Then he bites the hair off my chinny- chin chin. Yup, for real. He’s good like that.
In nature, the female is responsible for picking the right male for optimal breeding. The 17-year-old me must have had that knowledge ingrained in my evolutionary DNA for finding a mate. I would never have consciously known this was a required trait. See I keep telling him I’m still smart, the kids haven’t turned me into a total idiot. Yet.
So the next time I am at the beach and a stray hair is peeking from my bikini bottom, hopefully, he won’t notice. However, it’s been 28 years. I know him. He’ll frickin’ notice. Note to self- add tweezers to beach bag checklist.
If you liked this one, read Dear Period… I’m Breaking Up With You