The older I get, the more I want people to tell it like it is. If I’ve got spinach in my teeth, let me know. If my breath could rival a goat’s, hand me some mints. If I start to repeat myself, cut me off.
So I was quite surprised — flabbergasted, actually — when I discovered something on my face that clearly everyone knew about but me — a whisker. A long one, at that.
The knee-buckling event occurred a week ago. It was a dark and stormy night; my husband was out for the evening. Restless, I turned to what I always turn to when left to my own device — a wall-mounted vanity mirror with 10-times magnification.
Like other women who’ve had their fair share of stress — from raising teens to caring for aging parents to struggling to find pants that fit — I’ve got some things going on in this ol’ face of mine that intrigue me.
And I’m okay with what’s happening, too. Some wrinkles here, some crow’s feet there, some sagging here, some discolorations there, I’m good. It’s part of the aging process. I wouldn’t expect anything less.
I did not expect, however, to be greeted by a dark whisker near the corner of my upper lip. What? I screamed to no one. How long has that been there? OMG! Why didn’t anyone tell me?
Needless to say, I grabbed my tweezers and excised the evil-doer faster than you could say “dwindling estrogen.”
Years ago when I used to watch “The Rosie O’Donnell Show,” I recall an episode where she revealed that she’d just discovered a whisker under her chin. She allowed the camera to zoom in on it and the audience howled. I howled, too. She said she was going to see how long it could get and would chart the progress, maybe tie a bead to it. More laughs.
I’m not finding my own whisker so funny though. I’m concerned about what it means. Maybe there’s an entire mustache in there just waiting to rear its hairy head. Maybe my forehead is broadening without my knowledge. Before long, I could be singing in baritone and slathering everything I eat with hot sauce. I don’t know what the future holds.
On the plus side, though, maybe an uptick in testosterone — which I hold responsible for my whisker — is not such a bad thing after all. Being able to open my own jar of peanut butter would be a beautiful thing. Crushing a beer can on my head has always been on my bucket list. Burping with gusto would…wait, I already do that.
But back to friends and family members who kept mum on my budding mustache. I don’t get it. Seriously, why didn’t anyone let me know that I had a boar’s bristle sprouting from my upper lip? I kindly inform them when their roots need a touch-up or they could stand to wear a better bra. You would think they would return the favor.
Oh, whatever. I’ve got more pressing issues. I just tracked in some mud that, quite strangely, I feel compelled to deny.