Dear second chin hair:
I wanted to take a second to introduce myself. I realize I am quite overdue in doing so, but I spent the first year or so of your life dismissing your existence as a fluke, ignorantly assuming you were just a misguided follicle exposed to too much radiation from my cell phone and you’d calm your shit down eventually and get gone. Seeing as I am in the grey area here, straddling the edge between mid and late 30s–where I plan to remain until I am approximately 52–I thought I had more time.
You’re here to stay, much like your older sister, and that means that I do not have one single, solitary, errant whisker.
I HAVE TWO. Whiskers. Plural.
Or had anyway, before that unfortunate incident yesterday with the tweezers, which by the way, I feel like I should explain. Maybe you are familiar with the old adage which goes something like: “have one chin hair, shame on the chin hair, have two chin hairs, get yourself some tweezers.” You see, it’s not that I don’t admire your spunk, growing right out of my face as if you belonged there, as if an almost clear wiry hair looking an awful lot like fishing line dangling from my chin was a thing we were going to do, but I’m just not ready. Not yet.
I will grant you that my beauty standards have–for a lack of a better word–relaxed over the years. There was a time before kids when I had a weekly appointment to have my nails done and now I bite them off and spit them out the window while commuting to work, for example. I’ve given up on tanning of either the real or faux varietals, any type of conditioning that takes more than 10 minutes including the exercise kind, and any pants whose waist doesn’t roll over. My hair? That’s a lost cause. My body? I’m cool with it as long as we honor our long standing agreement to never have another full length mirror in the house. You could probably have sprung brightly out of, say, my knee, and I wouldn’t even have noticed you until the next time I shaved my legs, which I’m predicting will be sometime around summer 2018.
But my face? No. I’m sorry. I just can’t. Not yet anyway. It’s the last vestige of me I have left, the motherhood final frontier, and if I walk around with you and your sister sticking out of it it’s basically a public admission that I have completely given up. I’d suggest you come back sometime after I am out of my mid-to-late 30s, which right now looks to be in about 15 years. Hell, I’ll even welcome you back later with open arms and a bunt cake frosted with Nair.
Until then, scram. You’re evicted.
And take your no-good sister with you.
About the author: Liz is a mama, yogi, writer, warrior, wanderer, dreamer, doubter, and hot mess. She lives in a creaky old house in Central New York with her ever-patient husband, their four babies, and an excitable dog named Boss, and shares her stories on her website, http://www.lizpetrone.com. She can also be found on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/lizpetroneblog and on Instagram at http://www.instagram.com/lizziepetrone.