The One in Which I Wrestle the Mustache
I have this one, tiny, white-blond hair sticking out of my upper lip. It's on the right side of my face, just above the corner of my mouth. It's been bothering me for days, no weeks, but because it's so light in color, it's very difficult to find. Unless you're in the right light. Or smack up against the mirror with a flashlight at just the right angle and you have your tongue pushing out your upper lip from within your mouth. (You can tell I've tried, quite earnestly, to get this sucker, can't you?)
So today, even though good light is hard to find, I said to myself, I'm going in and it's going down. I cannot stand to pick at this hair anymore. And with a good pair of tweezers in hand, I lined myself up in front of the mirror, ready to wrestle.
However, it was a vain attempt to get that son-of-a-gun. I stood there, for minutes I tell you, grasping the hair and then letting go of it. And repeating those same actions, again and again. It got to be such a futile attempt that I removed my glasses--so that I could really hone in on the hair itself. (I'm getting old, as you can see, and I might just need bifocals soon.) Once I did that, I could see the reason why the wrestling match was taking place.
What I thought was one hair was actually two, poking out of the same follicle. And much like Zoe and Talia do when they're together and angry (at me, not each other), those hairs reveled in their stubbornness and stuck up for one another (literally). No amount of pulling (and by pulling I mean that I had tears in my eyes from the pain) would allow for the nasty twin hairs to be removed.
What to do? Nair them? Shave them? Pretend they don't exist? I didn't have time to worry too much about the situation, as Melina was due to arrive home in the following few minutes. So I moved away from the mirror, turned out the bathroom light, and went to fix Melina's grilled cheese. (You can see what I did. . . reverse psychology at work here, of course.) And then, once her sandwich was done, I sauntered back into the bathroom, pretending that my hands needed washing. I quickly grabbed the tweezers and took the opportunity for a sneak attack.
The hairs didn't have time to think. They're in my trash now.
So today, even though good light is hard to find, I said to myself, I'm going in and it's going down. I cannot stand to pick at this hair anymore. And with a good pair of tweezers in hand, I lined myself up in front of the mirror, ready to wrestle.
However, it was a vain attempt to get that son-of-a-gun. I stood there, for minutes I tell you, grasping the hair and then letting go of it. And repeating those same actions, again and again. It got to be such a futile attempt that I removed my glasses--so that I could really hone in on the hair itself. (I'm getting old, as you can see, and I might just need bifocals soon.) Once I did that, I could see the reason why the wrestling match was taking place.
What I thought was one hair was actually two, poking out of the same follicle. And much like Zoe and Talia do when they're together and angry (at me, not each other), those hairs reveled in their stubbornness and stuck up for one another (literally). No amount of pulling (and by pulling I mean that I had tears in my eyes from the pain) would allow for the nasty twin hairs to be removed.
What to do? Nair them? Shave them? Pretend they don't exist? I didn't have time to worry too much about the situation, as Melina was due to arrive home in the following few minutes. So I moved away from the mirror, turned out the bathroom light, and went to fix Melina's grilled cheese. (You can see what I did. . . reverse psychology at work here, of course.) And then, once her sandwich was done, I sauntered back into the bathroom, pretending that my hands needed washing. I quickly grabbed the tweezers and took the opportunity for a sneak attack.
The hairs didn't have time to think. They're in my trash now.
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