I have a solitary hair that sprouts from a mole on my chin. At certain times of the year, particularly when I’ve been a bit lax with grooming, it seems to multiply, inviting a few cousins to join in. During these moments, you can find me locked in the sanctuary of my bathroom, lights on full blast, incense burning, fervently plucking away at these unruly strands. It’s a battle against what feels like an invasion, and without swift action, I fear I might resemble a circus performer.
The real trouble with chin hairs—like any unwanted strands—is that they must reach a specific length before they can be removed. Whether you prefer waxing or tweezing, it’s an unfortunate reality that if you can see it clearly enough to grab it, so can everyone else.
There’s a strange satisfaction in yanking them out, akin to the relief of popping a pimple. I’m often astonished by the length of these hairs, resembling wiry black icebergs floating on the ocean of my face. In contrast, my eyebrow hairs are a weaker breed, requiring a microscope and steady hand to extract. Unlike the bold chin hairs, these pale, frail ones are a continual annoyance, not because they grow in the wrong place but simply because they exist. I sometimes think I would prefer a bushy curl up there instead of the feeble fuzz that dares to sprout above my eyes.
It wasn’t until my mid-20s that a flamboyant stylist named Leo, with his tight pants and sharp eye, pointed out my eyebrow predicament. “Did you know your eyebrows stop halfway across your eyes?” he exclaimed, shock evident on his face. “You should really do something about that. Buy a pencil.”
A pencil? Not for eyeliner, which took days to scrub from my skin. My eyebrow pencil—once I figured out what he meant—quickly became my trusted ally, averting a beauty crisis.
Shortly after this revelation, my chin hair made its grand entrance. Perhaps it had always been there in a more subdued form, but once it sensed my fondness for darkened brows, it transformed into a bold statement. For the last 15 years, it has faced a daily skirmish with my tweezers, and more often than not, it emerges victorious.
Post-kids, I discovered another oddity: a few long hairs growing on the backs of my thighs. Not an overwhelming amount, just a handful of exceptionally long strands that seem to be making a slow, awkward escape from their designated area. I can now add these leg “pubes” to the long list of bizarre changes that come with motherhood.
Despite my frustration, I have to admire my chin hair. Its resilience and unwavering growth rate deserve a nod of respect. No matter how frequently I pluck it, it springs back with determination—like a little warrior that refuses to be vanquished. Perhaps I should write a tale about it. Oh wait—I just did!
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Summary
This piece humorously details the author’s candid experiences with chin hair, eyebrow struggles, and the oddities that arise postpartum. It balances horror and admiration for these bodily changes while weaving in personal anecdotes and tips for managing beauty routines.