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No longer too furry

3 min read

I may have previously made mention of my newfound skill for growing a mustache. The first time I noticed it was in a harsh public restroom light at Sam’s Club some years back. Thinking it was controllable, I bought some bleach and hair-remover cream and gave it a whirl.

Some months later, my son asked me if I was trying to be like Daddy. When I asked why he wondered, he replied my mustache was nearly as big as his. After crying in my coffee cup for a few seconds, I attempted to explain it is simply a part of growing older for many women. I also mentioned it is one of those subjects best left unsaid except between good friends or by someone wearing a flak jacket.

For the past few years, I tried everything: bleach, depilatory creams and pre-waxed strips designed for “less pull.” I actually broke down and bought a NoNo when they were deeply discounted and I was deeply depressed. Nothing worked very well or for very long.

The bleach had to be mixed in a cup before application. It smelled bad and kind of burned my lip. The depilatory creams smelled bad and left me with a rash anywhere they touched my skin. The pre-waxed strips pulled quite a bit, yet often left most of the hair behind when removed. And the NoNo? It seemed to work, but had to be used every three days or so for eternity. Plus, there is just something about smelling the hair being burned from your body that makes you wish you weren’t vain.

I actually tried that, too. I decided to let it grow. (It’s OK, you can sing it to the “Frozen” theme song. I do.) I decided it was good for me to focus on my internal beauty over an attempt at external beauty. I decided if people couldn’t like me because I had a mustache on par with Tom Selleck, Albert Einstein and 1970s Burt Reynolds, that was their issue.

Suddenly, every conversation I entered became uncomfortable. I felt like people were staring at my mouth. I felt like nothing I said mattered as much as my furry upper lip. I became more self-conscious than a teenager with a pimple or two.

And then one day, as I looked down to read the newspaper, I could ACTUALLY SEE IT. I could see my hairy lip in my peripheral vision.

After crying in my coffee cup for a few seconds, I called my friend and begged her to wax my lip. She agreed, and brought down her wax pot and supplies. Actual hot wax and cloth strips were applied to my face.

She then told me she planned to count to three before pulling it off. Before I said, “OK,” she ripped the strip – and a woolly worm dark enough to predict a full 13 weeks of snowy winter – off of my face.

“Sorry,” she said, laughing. “The more notice I give you, the more it hurts.”

Good to know, I thought, as a tear rolled down my cheek.

But, on the plus side, the tear rolled unhindered to my chin instead of becoming trapped in a fur forest of hair on my lip.

Laura Zoeller can be reached at zoeller5@verizon.net.

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