When I got home from work yesterday, I shuffled into the bathroom for a post-commute pee, then glanced in the mirror. In horror, I spotted what looked to be a pointy black chin hair, sticking out straight for all the world to see.
I took the lord’s name in vain and quickly called Jason into the bathroom. “Come look at this!” I shouted.
“I don’t want to,” he insisted from the other side of the door.
He had a point. I was still in the bathroom, after all, insisting he come see. I washed my hands (my parents raised me right), then stalked out into the kitchen. “Look!” I said again, pointing at my chin.
“Ew! What is that?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s a big old chin hair,” I wailed.
Before you judge me for acting like a spoiled child, let me explain: like all women of a certain age, I’ve gotten chin hairs before. What upset me was that this one was dark brown and impossible to miss. I was once a natural blonde. I expect any new hairs sprouting on my face to be either blonde or, as time marches on, gray. But this thing was the stuff of legends: impossible to miss against my pasty white skin. Dark and hard and well on its way to becoming a beard. A chin hair to make ogres and witches proud.
Wait a minute. Hard?
I rubbed at it again, then took the stairs two at a time to get to the magnifying mirror on my bureau. I turned on the light and squinted. Then I scraped at it with my fingernail. The chin hair fell off.
I screamed. “Tick!”
Jason appeared in an instant, grill lighter in hand. “Where?”
“I dropped it on the bureau. There! There!”
He blasted it with flames, then peered closer. “That’s not a tick.”
“It’s not?”
He sniffed. “I think it’s a coffee ground.”
I thought back to that morning. I’d poured myself a fresh mug of java, and hadn’t noticed until I’d gotten to the end of the cup that there were grounds on the bottom.
That had been at six in the morning. I’d spent the whole day with a chin-hair-resembling, tick-like coffee ground stuck to my face, and none of my coworkers had said a thing.
Next week: remember when I used to be friends with my coworkers?
I took the lord’s name in vain and quickly called Jason into the bathroom. “Come look at this!” I shouted.
“I don’t want to,” he insisted from the other side of the door.
He had a point. I was still in the bathroom, after all, insisting he come see. I washed my hands (my parents raised me right), then stalked out into the kitchen. “Look!” I said again, pointing at my chin.
“Ew! What is that?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s a big old chin hair,” I wailed.
Before you judge me for acting like a spoiled child, let me explain: like all women of a certain age, I’ve gotten chin hairs before. What upset me was that this one was dark brown and impossible to miss. I was once a natural blonde. I expect any new hairs sprouting on my face to be either blonde or, as time marches on, gray. But this thing was the stuff of legends: impossible to miss against my pasty white skin. Dark and hard and well on its way to becoming a beard. A chin hair to make ogres and witches proud.
Wait a minute. Hard?
I rubbed at it again, then took the stairs two at a time to get to the magnifying mirror on my bureau. I turned on the light and squinted. Then I scraped at it with my fingernail. The chin hair fell off.
I screamed. “Tick!”
Jason appeared in an instant, grill lighter in hand. “Where?”
“I dropped it on the bureau. There! There!”
He blasted it with flames, then peered closer. “That’s not a tick.”
“It’s not?”
He sniffed. “I think it’s a coffee ground.”
I thought back to that morning. I’d poured myself a fresh mug of java, and hadn’t noticed until I’d gotten to the end of the cup that there were grounds on the bottom.
That had been at six in the morning. I’d spent the whole day with a chin-hair-resembling, tick-like coffee ground stuck to my face, and none of my coworkers had said a thing.
Next week: remember when I used to be friends with my coworkers?
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