Do you have chin hair?
I discovered my first chin hair when I was fourteen! It was my boyfriend who pointed it out. We were swimming - the sun shining brightly on my chin like a huge spotlight - when he stared at me strangely.
"What is that?" he asked as he reached for it. I thought he was wiping away a piece of seaweed. So sweet. When he went to pick it off - there was a tug. It was attached. I died.
As I got older, they got harder and darker.
Mine are black and count way more than one. Let's face it - I have a beard.
I share this with you because many of you share my bearded tale - or tail!
We need a plucking club.
I've tried everything.
I started by shaving. I admit it. When I told the hairstylist (you know, the type you tell your chin tales to) she was mortified and warned me to never under any circumstances do that again. I threw away the razor.
She recommended electrolysis, but you need to let it grow out to really zap it. I could not let those wiry whiskers grow wild! No.
Then there are the "feminine" versions of the male ear and nose whiskers wipers. They come in all kinds of pastel colors. I have a purple one. It shaves away all the little tiny peach fuzz on your face too - I suspect making more black ones appear!
Over the years, I've heard from other whiskered women that plucking is the best. I tried. I plucked. And plucked and plucked.
Whiskers are weeds!
The problem with plucking is forgetting. Like this morning. I forgot all about weeding my whiskers until we parked to go to brunch and I looked into the mirror in the car - the sun highlighting the new blackies.
I pluck. One, two, three... five... seven. Ten? No, there's that one over by my cheek. Good lord.
I check the mirror and breathe a sigh of relief as I push the visor up to see standing in the middle of the street staring at me - like I just let the out the biggest butt blast ever in the middle of the fanciest restaurant - a family complete with mom, kids and grandpa.
I shrug and through my open window announce, "Got 'em!"
They walk away quickly. Grandpa heads to his car. Mom and kids go to theirs. I die.
"I love you, honey," my husband says. "All of you." I know he'd pluck those little beasts if I really needed him too. But isn't that a girlfriend's job?
Then I look up as the mom is getting into the driver's seat. She grins at me - an I'm a whisker weeder too grin.
I found another member of Pluck and Cluck. Please dear God, have someone pluck ‘em when I'm too old to see ‘em. Help a hairy sister out.