I walked in my bathroom this morning and a strange man was lurking there. I said, “Sir, who are you and how the hell did you get in my house?”
I was looking at myself in the mirror. I have a mustache.
I can’t exactly pinpoint when I started morphing into a bear, but, it’s happening and I’m worried that I’m now on some sort of grooming hell fast track. Is all of the postpartum hair I lost going to reappear spontaneously and with interest and, not on my head?
I got as close to the mirror as possible to survey my upper lip thinking that Tom Selleck would have been jealous. What I lack in sex appeal, I make up for in impressive lip hair volume. Size does matter ladies, especially when it looks like a family of woolly bear caterpillars colonized on your face.
I was panicked. I stood there, forehead pressed against the mirror going over every inane bit of hair removal advice I had ever heard. I pulled deep into my soul and remembered the hushed whispers of female relatives after dinner and their third Wild Turkey on the rocks.
1) I must NEVER shave it or it will grow back thicker and darker.
2) I must never wax it or I will damage the delicate skin above the lip. I would end up with scars or wrinkles or scurvy.
I can’t remember all the details. I was 8 and hiding under a coffee table, ok?
I suddenly realized that my drunk relatives had this all wrong because I have a mustache. ON MY FACE. I think we can all agree that, removal method preferences aside, something must be done. And quickly before I surrender and buy sculpting wax and start auditioning for civil war battle reenactments.
While I played the world’s most frightening game of “What if…” in my mind, I decided to shower. I took off my clothes and..WHAT THE EVER LOVING FOLLICLE was that?
I have hair. On my nipples.
You have got to be kidding me.
How long was I playing the role of Chewbacca in the bedroom and why didn’t my husband ever tell me? I suddenly questioned our entire marriage. If he wasn’t telling me that I looked like Planet of the Apes in a bra, how could I trust him with anything.
Sinking into a pit of desphair (see what I did there?), I knew what had to be done.
Walmart. With my 6 year old.
We stood in the shaving and hair removal aisle while he shouted, “Why do you need to look at so many things in this aisle? You already have razors. What is this thing? What does W-A-X spell? Why does that lady have something on her face? Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?”
I had to get out of there so I bought one of everything. I will probably have to use them all to make a dent.
Sinking even deeper still into my pit of desphair, I knew what had to be done.
The liquor store. With my 6 year old.
Now armed with vodka and enough hair removal products to effectively war against a livid nation of Wildebeest, I am finally ready to tame the mane.
Of the stages of grief, I think I’ve made it to acceptance. Make yourself useful and hand me that weed whacker.
Until next time, this is Bad Parenting Moments hoping you don’t mistake yourself for a male intruder in your own home.