Getting old is not for pussies. But, as my mom says, it is better than the alternative. Which I guess is dying? Why is that not reassuring?
The last time I got my eyebrows did, my eyebrow lady was finishing up and said, “Anything else?” She had never asked this question before. I thought she meant my bikini or legs or something, so I said, “Nope, all good, thanks.” And do you know what she says?
She says, “What about your face.”
I said, “Um, what about my face?”
“Do you want to wax your face? Some women do. As they get older.”
WHY I NEVER. I stumble around for the proper response, politely say no thanks, then cover my wolfwoman face and run in shame to my car. By the time I get home, I am good and outraged. I’m not sure if it’s because she called me old or because she called me hairy-faced. So I tell my husband.
He says, “What! You are no hairier than anyone else.”
Is all the hair plugging up my ears, or did I really just hear that?
Sigh. So I pout about becoming an older, hairier woman, for a little while. And then I see this article about the 2013 National Beard and Mustache competition in New Orleans. I decide then and there that if this facial hair situation really gets out of control, I’m just going to go with it. I could totally pull off some lamb chops.