Sproutings

I may swear a bit. I have made the discovery that I have facial hair. Not peach-fuzzy blonde softness that sweeps across my skin like a teenager's tanned and lovely tummy. No, not that. I have hair first of all, on my fucking FACE. Like, Magnum P.I. mustache facial hair. Like, "Wow, I only notice it because you mentioned it" bullshit facial hair. It's right under my eye. My EYE! Who has almost-eye-hair, other than cavemen? Apparently dames like me, who after pumping out two chillens in two years, has faced the hormonal onslaught. On my face. I found a 2 inch hair under my chin on Saturday night before date-night with the hubby. Nothing says sexy like shaving next to your loved one at the sink. Can you pass me the Mach-3 honey?

I've always had to groom the brows which have grown almost Frida-like across my face. Rectangular-shaped brows I can manage. But when said eyebrow hair grows all the way up to my REAL hairline, I have to stop the show. Send in the clowns, and ask them to bring plenty of Nair with them.

In high school I rocked the Jolen often. That little teal, 3-D square box was found many a time on my bathroom sink. Like a chemists bunsen burner, it was ready to burn the shit out of my face. Not hair removal, you see...but hair bleaching. And, for those who haven't had the opportunity to work with Jolene, it's a cream, mixed with a vial of bleach granules that makes for a nifty mask to put upon your hairy area. It also included a square mixing platform and a spatula that could also be used in a dollhouse if your dolls made batches of delicious bleachcakes. . I often left it on too long as I am: 1) easily distracted 2) unorganized with matter of beauty of the quest therein 3) interested in a cookie, hold on and 4) I think I know better than the directions. Seven minutes? Naaah, Eleven would be much better. It will make the hair even LIGHTER, I bet! Sandra McSmarty pants often showed up with a red bozo-like mustache that stole the attention of her man-stache.

"Jen, did you burn yourself? Seriously, that looks sensitive, try some butter."

So here I am again, back in a shituation which requires: 1) Money I don't have to do laser Star Wars beam-like zapping treatments on my face 2) Time in the bathroom to ponder at new follicular growth, pluck it, shave it (no!), or wonder if the Nair bottle really means it when it says "DON'T USE THIS ON YOUR FACE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD."

As for right now, I think I'll suck it up and get myself a wax job. On my upper lip. And brow up to the hairline. And perhaps my chin.

Or, like my hubby suggested, we can grow matching goatees.