by Regular Contributor Kim Saunders (@captainco.tasmania)
I have a hair. Well actually, plural. I have hairs.
Yup. We all have hairs I hear you say. But these babies are on my chin. I. Am. Mortified.
They are blonde and can only be seen in certain light. But they are there. Seriously? When did this happen? It's bad enough to be battling wrinkles and cellulite as I get older. But HAIRS ON MY CHIN. Oh dear.
I've been dealing with a few monobrow strays and mo sprouters for a few years... but the chin hairs have really thrown me. This is a whole new ballpark. One that I’m not quite prepared for.
Now I know Mr Perfect is well aware that I need 'some' maintenance to keep myself looking halfway decent. I'm not a prude. He's seen me at my biggest. He's seen my at my worst. He's seen me give birth... AND he was down the business end. He loves me no matter what. For years I refused to pass wind in earshot of him. Now, I may let a gentle fluff go. But they are cream puff fluffs that smell like rose petals really. That's what all ladies do, right?
BUT I draw the line with him even knowing about those stray chinny chin chin hairs that just shouldn't be. There's only one mirror in the house with the perfect light to get those little blond invaders. Unfortunately it's in the living room. In our open plan home. Ugh.
I've tried to be stealth... but so many times he's wandered past and caught me mid-chin-up-close to the mirror squinting like a mad woman, tongue poking out in concentration with tweezers in hand. I always try to make some excuse. My last one was just a simple light hearted "heeeey, nice mirror"...he just looked at me and kept moving. Smart man, and thank you for sparing me the humiliation.
Even during a facial, all I can think is can they see the hair? Can they feel the hair? Oh my god I think she just touched the hair. Did she just recoil in horror? She did recoil in horror. She’s 18. She knows nothing about the sprouting of old age hairs. Oh god. How am I ever going to go back. Ugh, darn you chinny chin chin hair. It hardly makes for a relaxing hour at the beautician's. Don’t even get me started on my thought process when I get a massage. Cellulite, jiggly bits and hairs.
I'm trying to age gracefully. I may have had a little go of Botox for my 30th birthday after a minor freak-out. I thought forehead looked like an accordion in a photo. It didn’t. But I couldn’t be stopped. Six years later, I haven’t had it again, but can’t promise I won't try it again. Maybe.
I already drink copious cups of tea and love a good scone... and some of you already know I love to wear 'nanna knickers' most days. Not just because I'm pregnant, but because those babies are comfy.
I’ve got age spots. Uneven skin tone. Wrinkles on my wrinkle. Jiggly bits on my jiggly bits. Dimply bits on my dimply bits. And now, hairs on my chinny chin chin.
I used to wear matching sets of lingerie.
Now it's sports bras and nanna knickers.
I used to wear G-strings.
Now I feel like a honey baked ham if I wear them, with an all day wedgy.
I used to wear heels everyday.
Now I last half an hour in them before I need to sit down. Then need a Zimmer frame to get around.
I used to enjoy a few Long Island Ice Teas.
Now it's cups of Peppermint Tea.
I used to cut up shapes on the dance floor.
Now I cut out shapes of felt.
I used to shake my pom pom.
Now I make the pom poms.
Even the fact I said "I used to cut up shapes on the dance floor" shows my age.
And I'm only 36. And a half. I’m going to rock 40. Chinny chin chin hairs and all.