Ode to the Hair on my Chinny-Chin-Chin

Oh wiry, follicular weed!

You are tough as granite stone.

Why do you see the need

to make my face your home?

With manic frenzy you feed

on hormones and keratin.

Like a fertilized spider plant

randomly sprouting from my chin;

with impotent rage I rant

yet you return again and again.

My razor armies ruthlessly lead

the charge to remove, hurt and maim.

I mow and zap you with all speed;

you laugh as I  feel the pain.

Yet sadistically I still have the need

to remove this embarrassment and shame.

I fear my hairless creed

has left me slightly insane!

I wish to be fully freed

from your black spider legged train.

As beauty is our greatest greed

your loss will be my Gain.

One of the “joys” of getting older is the sprouting of wild hair.  These over-“keratin-ized” strands of protein are the superheroes of the hair community.

I can hang like a monkey from mine.

I have tweezed, waxed and home-lazered the little horns with no effect.  Chemo took out a lot of my hair, but not the thick posts sticking out of my chin.   What a fussy lot we are….hair is acceptable in only certain areas of the body and humiliating in others.  Who determines the placement of beauty?

I say be proud and not shy and let that hair fly!

Having said that bravely to my mirror, I will now once again remove the offenders from my face and count my pennies for a permanent hair removal session.  Sigh, I am weak, I am frivolous, and I hate facial hair on women AND men.  My husband grew a mustache at the age of 12 (in a long downward U-formation–ugh) and wore the stupid thing for 13 years straight, resisting all taunts and attempts to remove it until I told him that I would only date him if it was removed.  He immediately went into his bathroom and 10 minutes later emerged a new man!  Well….how could I refuse THAT? I mean, there isn’t a greater act of wooing sacrifice then a man removing himself from his beloved hair, the icon of his identity.  I have had women sighing and sobbing in tears over this sappy story of romantic love….

But I must say that it was also the finest moment of my dating career and a boon to all mankind.

Unfortunately, a couple of years ago, in a moment of extreme weakness, I let him try a beard, and “Facebear” emerged to my intense horror.

Yes, that’s right…he NAMED the thing.  Kissing a mouthful of wiry hair is akin to rubbing my face with a potato brush.  I can get a rash after just 30 seconds of it.  So I don’t kiss the man until it is all off.  And when I give this ultimatum, the tussle between his manly image and his desire for a smooch is palpable.  Hmmmm…..perhaps I should stop obsessing over my chin hairs and rub them on HIM.  So here is my (hopefully humorous) “poem” on facial hair, enjoy!