This morning, Abby and I stood in Henry's room, by the windows. She hugged me. She pulled back and looked up at me. I expected her to say, "Momma, I love you". But instead, she stared at me. More specifically, she stared at my upper lip.
"Mommy", she said, "you have thingys up there."
"Where?" I answered in a panic, knowing that one of my vanity fears was about to unfold.
"Right there", she answered, pointing directly at the hairs on my upper lip. "Maybe you should shave those", she suggested as she sauntered her blond-body-haired-body out of the room.
A direct correlation exists between the darkening of the hair on my face and my age. With each passing year, the hair on my face not only gets darker, it multiplies and brings friends. Lots and lots of little, dark, stubborn, impervious-to-bathroom-light-friends. They used to only populate my eyebrows and upper lip, and my chin-scar (sweet). But now, well, no place on my face is safe. Nothing is sacred!
(A side note here--my favorite well-lit spot to inspect for these devilish bastards is in the car mirror. I pull out of the garage, sit in the driveway and eliminate those little buggers. One day, I'll be clean and hair-free. Then two days later I'll check my lovely mug and learn that my face is littered with dark hairs, taunting me with their stealth return.)
I've even gone this far: just in case I'm ever in a coma, I've given my best friend explicit hair-removal instructions. Of course I want her to send love, warmth, good vibes, talk to me, etc. But her other priority is to keep my face hair-free. No small task--waxing, plucking, lowering the lights, whatever it takes. The thought of lying there, unconscious is horrible. The thought of lying there, unconscious, with black hairs waving at my doctors, nurses and visitors throws me over the edge.
I used to admonish women in their 60's and 70's who sprouted hair-gardens on their chinny-chin-chins. "Geesh,", I'd think to myself, "get yourself a mirror and bright light and tame that beard." Now, I'm ashamed of my naive judgments. Hairy karma now repays me with own Chia chin garden at 37. Sigh.