Last night, before I realized that it was an hour long, I got sucked into an episode of Treehouse Masters. That's why it was all kinds of late when I finally got in bed. BUT. Before I got into bed, I brushed my teeth. I took out my contacts. I pulled out a few stray eyebrow hairs because if I didn't do regular upkeep I'd be borderline Unibrow Woman. With my face all pushed up against the mirror, I surveyed the state of my pores. I turned my head this way and that.
And that's when I saw it. A black hair. A loooong black hair. Growing out of the side of my face. It seemed to be a confused head hair more than a whisker but its location suggested that the world is going to conspire against me and I'm going to get that beard after all.
Now, yesterday, I had a conversation with someone at the bank. I went to Dollar Tree. I had a discussion with not one, and not two, but three of the first grade teachers when I picked Garrett up from school. I conversed with friends. In the flesh. Face to face. Or, as it was, face to whisker. This is not to mention all the people I've seen, up close and personal, in the past several weeks.
If teenage me had known about facial hair, she would have run away screaming. If I could talk to her now. The conversation would go a little something like this.
"You're going to find stray beard hairs coming out of your face."
"Well, Old Lady Self, I'm prepared for that. Few of us age gracefully."
"Um. No, Teenage Self, I don't mean at NINETY. I mean, at age THIRTY TWO you will find stray beard hairs. There will be several locations that you will habitually check and pluck. Two hairs in your chin alone, Girlfriend. But, inevitably, you will miss the one on the side of your face from time to time until it has grown to nearly half an inch in length! Half an inch. HALF AN INCH!"
"Wha? THIRTY TWO? Say it's not so?"
I hate Teenage Self. She was so unaware. So young and naive. And her arms were so toned. So very, very toned. Her stomach--flat as a washboard. And vericose veins, she knew not of these.
So there I was, yanking a half inch dark black hair out of my face. Let me pause here to say, "WHAT? MY HEAD HAIR IS NOT DARK SO HOW IS MY BEARD COMING IN BLACK?" Anyway. I pulled. It came out. I started frantically searching my face--at all angles and with several different lighting options--for other signs that I'm turning into a man. And, would you believe that there, growing out of my CHEEK was another one? Well, if I spoke with you at all yesterday I'm sure you would. I'm sure you saw it. I'm sure you debated how to delicately inform me that I was sporting two wiry facial hairs of substantial length.
I lamented to my husband. "Woe to me! My beard hath beguneth."
He promised that he hadn't noticed them.
I believe him.
Certainly he wouldn't have wanted the wife of his (slightly later than) youth to walk around unknowingly showing off her spectacular beard hairs. He insisted that no one noticed. But I kind of want to retrace my steps and approach anyone I spoke with yesterday. "So, those glaringly obvious hairs I had growing out of my face yesterday, I removed them. In case you were wondering."
What is up with getting older?
What is up with having to add, Remove Unwanted Facial Hair, to my list of things to do?
Please tell me I'm not the only one this happens to.