Body Chronicles: The ‘Stache

My body hair is profusely transparent blonde, so, although it makes using my eyebrows to accentuate my emotions close to useless, I’m usually pretty lucky about not seeming outrageously bushy from the outside– unless I’m in direct sunlight, which is a natural peach fuzz accentuator. It’s stunningly ludicrous that at any point in life I would be convinced that I have a moustache warranting removal, but there you have it; I was convinced. (I have been convinced of greater ludicrosity during my life’s journey, but this time was particularly painful.) Have you ever been waxed on the face?! It’s like having a scorned pinwheel surrounding you in a whirlwind of slap.

Imagine this re-enactment, if you will…

The TORTURE ARTIST enters– sorry, the ESTHETICIAN–  the ESTHETICIAN CREEPS into the TORTURE CHAMBER– sorry– the ESTHETICIAN ENTERS the SAFE AND STERILE SPA room to OMINOUS FOREBODING music– sorry. Okay, it’s a soundtrack of lapping sea surf meant to soothe, but the volume IS too loud and I swear I hear an angry shark not too far under the surface! She’s coming at me– the esthetician, not the shark. She looks me over, and I swear I see drool escaping from the side of her mouth furthest from me. She keeps her eyes locked on mine. I can’t look away. I know it’s her way of keeping my attention– a distraction– because she’s got a mission. She’s hiding something behind her back and she’s going to aim it at me. I know this like I know that at the end of a scary movie there will be approximately one virgin who will survive the bloody ordeal. Due to previous life decisions, I know that won’t be me. She reaches behind me equally casually and cagily. When she springs back, she is brandishing her weapon… a rigid woody popsicle stick glinting with the threat of slivers and doom. She reaches to her side and rashly dips her stick into a pot of hot lava from the very core of earth’s unique hell. She brings it out of the pot of hot doom and toward my face. Suddenly everything in my world goes into slow motion. The music soundtrack morphs seamlessly from the surf and into a fine blend of an epic driving metal rock ballad paired with classic symphonic orchestral maneuvers in the dark. My doom the popsicle stick comes at me in 2D, in 3D, and I swear as it comes closer the Ds multiply like a virus with vengeance… 4D… 36D… 44 Double D… and the splinter plank lands on my upper lip.

(Epic pause)

Mmm. Oh, it’s so warm and soft… so soothing, that heat. And the soundtrack transitions to a lilting rendition of Dreamweaver. Oh, this could lure me into a nap– yep, here I go. I’m on a hammock swinging on a gentle warm breeze. Madonna is singing La Isla Bonita and Johnny Depp is feeding me grapes… chocolate-covered grapes. (Sigh) I relax and drift off like a magical feather to the land of– WTF!!!! What is going on?! The sky is falling! Why is she maiming me up in my face? What the arse–

She gets up off the floor.

She: “I’m sorry, I…“

Me: “Get off me!”

She: “But you…“

Me: “Stand down!! Put the popsicle stick down!”

She: “You have…“

Me: “Get back!”

She: “…half a moustache.”

(An even more epic pause)

(Groan) She has a point. I am now unbalanced moustacheously. I look at her. I look at the popsicle stick. I look at the pool of my shattered soul quivering on the end of that popsicle stick. It’s then and there that I decide. I DECIDE. I am a woman, a strong woman, and I am a woman strong enough to go through life with half a moustache.

Me: “I’m out!  And I don’t even want a 50% discount!”

And that is how I came to have half a moustache… that I must constantly upkeep. You know that myth about hair coming back thicker and stronger than it was before? IT’S NOT A MYTH! My mustache half that wasn’t dismantled causes me no trouble whatsoever, and the dismantled half is a princess of maintenance.

I think that sometimes we’re good just the way we come and that we don’t need to go changing unnecessarily. Ludicrous. 

I hope you love every bit of you.
Love, Kat 🙂