Whiskers

So, I recently celebrated my 38th birthday.   I don't mind aging particularly (yet) but I am starting to feel older than my age would dictate that I should.  All summer I have dealt with major back pain that even physical therapy and chiropractic intervention took a while to heal.   I swear I have had a few hot flashes already.  And last, but certainly most disturbing, I am growing whiskers on my chin and neck.

I noticed this strange growth a year or more ago.  I was rubbing my chin and thought I felt something kind of wiry - like stubble - growing there.  I got my vanity mirror out and  turned it to the side that magnifies all of my hideous flaws, and discovered that yes, in fact, I was growing a whisker.  In the time that has passed, I have routinely and dutifully plucked it when it gets long enough - about once every 2-3 weeks.  Like clockwork it returns.  But it hasn't been too alarming up to this point because I've only been battling one.  I'm afraid that battle has now expanded and I feel like they have me surrounded.

Now, I do have a fair amount of hair on my face.  I'm not proud of it by any means.  I'm certainly not bragging.  It is simply a fact.  I always kind of thought is was just an extension of my hairline.  But I suppose if that were the case, it wouldn't make sense that my hairline covers my upper lip.  I never really considered it an issue until a few years ago when I was getting my eyebrows (more of my hairline?) waxed.  The stylist (is that what an eyebrow-waxer is?  A stylist? A waxer? A browologist?) asked me, "Would you like me to get your mustache while I'm at it?".

My mustache?  My mustache?!  Which mustache?  The one I thought was light enough that no one noticed it?  Or, the one I really didn't realize I had until that insulting question was asked?  In either case, I guess the answer is yes.  And by the way, this will be my last visit to you.

So, the bitch browologist waxed my mustache.  And so began my journey into extreme self-consciousness over my facial hair.  After the mustache was yanked off of my lip, I didn't feel the need to wax it again, but I was certainly more aware of the amount of hair I had on my face and, perhaps more importantly, the lack of it on others' faces.  I never really liked my mustache or the amount of hairs I had around my jaw and chin but it didn't become something horrifying to me until the introduction of the whisker.

I can't really pinpoint the first time I noticed it; only the horror that came over me upon realizing what it was.  I could picture my grandmother and the prickly little hairs shooting out of her chin that were visible to me when I'd visit her in the nursing home.  I was in my early thirties and already starting to grow my you're-old-senile-and-stuck-in-a-nursing-home beard.  If I didn't want others to snicker that I was growing a beard, I was going to have to pluck away my new little friend every time he (it was definitely a male hair) showed his little face.
 
I kept up this routine for several months - even years.  I was self-conscious enough about it that I would subtly run my hands and fingers over my chin in an effort to discover any new friends that may have sprouted.  The whisker problem appeared to be limited to my bottom left chin. Or so I thought.

In the past year, as I have run my fingers across my chin, I have found a new little patch (a patch!) of them - this time on the lower right hand side.  This new cluster grows at a different rate of speed than my original one and because of that, I can't simply declare one night of the week as Whisker-Pluckin'-Wednesday.  It doesn't work that way.  I may pluck lefty this Saturday and then turn right around on Tuesday and have a soul patch to contend with on the right side.

As I mentioned, my hairline comes right up under my jawline.  At times, I have been known to find a random hair that's a quarter inch long and something I feel I should address before others begin to notice it.  The way I search for these annoying but very thin and light and hardly noticeable neck hairs, is I'll take my first two fingers and I'll run them across my neck and jawline making a scissor motion to try and find a hair that I can pull away from my neck with them.  If no hair ends up getting pulled between my fingers, I'm in good shape.  If there's one that seems to be a little long, I'll pluck it like I do my my brows or whiskers - on an as-needed basis. 

Late last week, I was on a search for hairs on my neck. I catch myself doing it sometimes in meetings and wonder if people around the room know what I'm doing.  If they do know, I don't think they're disgusted by it.  I think they are probably relived and appreciative that I'm aware of the problem and trying to correct it. I was in this meeting subtly fishing for neck hairs when all of a sudden my two fingers caught something and began to pull it away from my neck.  I grew concerned when I pulled it past what I thought was a reasonable distance and it didn't tug at my neck.  I kept pulling and kept pulling feeling my eyes widen with the knowledge that there was seemingly no end to this strand growing out of a part of my body that always exposed to others.  When I had finally pulled it the entirety of it's length and I could feel the gentle tug on the skin of my neck, I felt two things: relief and utter embarrassment.  What if the other meeting attendees were watching what I was doing? Had they already been aware of this spool of thread growing out of my neck?  What if they'd noticed the hair all along and were placing bets on when I'd finally decide to do something about it? 

I tried to remain calm. I figured the best course of action would be to simply comb it back down, actually pay attention to the subject matter and contribute something to the meeting, and deal with it with my tweezers and vanity mirror in the privacy of my own bathroom.  I worried that once home, I would not be able to locate it again.  That it would simply blend in with the other blonde hairs around my chin and jaw.  However, when I got home and tilted my head up to try and locate it, I saw (without having to use the extra-magnifying side to the mirror) a long, thick, black strand of hair that was practically waving at me with balloons and sparklers; begging me to see it and do something about it.

I was mortified.  How long had this hideous thing been there and why was I just now becoming aware of it?  And why was it so dark?  Was someone secretly slipping me testosterone?  How could I be capable of producing such a long, thick hair?  I plucked it immediately and actually considered saving it to show Mike.  I just couldn't believe how long it was and felt someone else needed to share in my astonishment.  I reconsidered, thankfully (for him and for me), after realizing that a husband probably would begin to view his wife differently if she started growing more hair on her face than he did.  So, I threw it away.

So, I'm 38 years old and I am already turning into an old man woman.  If this is what I have become at this age, what on earth kind of shape will I be in at 48?  Should be frightening fun to see.  I know one thing for sure: I will never be far away from my tweezers.