Wednesday, September 4, 2013

Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin...

I've written about the indignities related to aging before. I still can't trampoline without protection. I've also had issues with a brand spanking new ragweed allergy and all the peeing sneezing  that goes with it and it reminded me of the other night.

I was reading in bed and stroking my chin (as one does) and noticed what I thought was a blemish. I started to pick at it (as one does) and started to pull. And pull. To my complete and utter horror, it wasn't a tiny pimple but a hair. A freaking whisker.

I had been in bed about 15 minutes and I was all cosy with my comforter and approaching sleep. After I found that offending nasty hair, I bounded out of my warm bed and raced to the bathroom where I stared into the mirror, pulling on it incredulously. It was unspeakably gross, wiry 3 inch, disgusting beard hair.

Anyway, I rifled through the appliance drawer, desperately looking for tweezers. I found them and yanked that sucker out without a second of remorse. Except for the death of my youth, of course...


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