I have something in common with my twelve year old son. We have both recently reached the age and place in life where our hormones are stimulating the growth of facial hair. It was a few months back that David bought Graham a razor and taught him how to use it. It was yesterday at the salon, while having my eyebrows waxed, that the kind eschetician not-so-subtly-suggested that it was her "professional opinion" that I should also have my upper lip waxed. It was a little bit more tactful than, "Lady, you have a mustache" but it was clear enough that there was no way I was going to walk out of that salon without having it done. While waxing my lip, she tried to rebuild my deflated self-esteem by complimenting me on all sorts of random things, like the fact that there is not any other unseemly hair on my face, that my pores are practically invisible, and (I am not making this up) that my fingernail beds are very nicely shaped! Are you kidding me???? Is there anything worse than a twenty-something cosmetologist starting your day off with "Hey there aging woman with the peach fuzz on your upper lip, those are some elegant looking nail beds you're sporting there!" Let's just say I was not encouraged. But, alas, I had a haircut scheduled immediately after my wax, and if anything can boost my mood it's a good haircut. So, as my stylist, Kara, washed my hair, I began to hope that she was going to work a miracle and transform me into a picture of beauty. However, all my hopes were quickly dashed. As I sat wearing a black vinyl cape with no other choice but to stare at my own reflection in the mirror while Kara snipped at my wet hair, I had my second moment of horror for the morning. It seems that in ripping the undesirable fur from my face, the young purveyor of beauty had agitated my sensitive skin, and where very fine blond hair once grew, I now saw a massive patch of bright red skin. I had a cherry-red mustache that made me look like I had just consumed a gallon of kool-aid. Maybe next time I should just ask Graham if I could borrow his razor.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Peach Fuzz
I have something in common with my twelve year old son. We have both recently reached the age and place in life where our hormones are stimulating the growth of facial hair. It was a few months back that David bought Graham a razor and taught him how to use it. It was yesterday at the salon, while having my eyebrows waxed, that the kind eschetician not-so-subtly-suggested that it was her "professional opinion" that I should also have my upper lip waxed. It was a little bit more tactful than, "Lady, you have a mustache" but it was clear enough that there was no way I was going to walk out of that salon without having it done. While waxing my lip, she tried to rebuild my deflated self-esteem by complimenting me on all sorts of random things, like the fact that there is not any other unseemly hair on my face, that my pores are practically invisible, and (I am not making this up) that my fingernail beds are very nicely shaped! Are you kidding me???? Is there anything worse than a twenty-something cosmetologist starting your day off with "Hey there aging woman with the peach fuzz on your upper lip, those are some elegant looking nail beds you're sporting there!" Let's just say I was not encouraged. But, alas, I had a haircut scheduled immediately after my wax, and if anything can boost my mood it's a good haircut. So, as my stylist, Kara, washed my hair, I began to hope that she was going to work a miracle and transform me into a picture of beauty. However, all my hopes were quickly dashed. As I sat wearing a black vinyl cape with no other choice but to stare at my own reflection in the mirror while Kara snipped at my wet hair, I had my second moment of horror for the morning. It seems that in ripping the undesirable fur from my face, the young purveyor of beauty had agitated my sensitive skin, and where very fine blond hair once grew, I now saw a massive patch of bright red skin. I had a cherry-red mustache that made me look like I had just consumed a gallon of kool-aid. Maybe next time I should just ask Graham if I could borrow his razor.
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I am so sorry my dear- but you do know that one day that 20-something cosmetologist will have to sport the same red mustache as you- hang on to that thought, my dear! It will get you through the day.
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