I glanced over as I slid the chocolate breakfast muffins into the oven. She had a wad of chocolate sprinkles stuck to her upper lip and chin.
“Ohhhhhh…. dear. What a mess.” I closed the oven door and quickly ripped a paper towel off the roll, handing it to her. “Why don’t you wipe your face down? But hold over the counter so it doesn’t end up on the floor…”
She made no move to comply.
“Guess who I am,” she giggled.
“Daddy?” I guessed.
She shook her head.
“A pirate?” I tried again.
Again, she shook her head no.
“Mommy,” she rolled her eyes, clearly frustrated with me. “I’m a grandmother!”
The frightening thing? She is right. Grandma has whiskers. My genetic destiny, right there. Each year, there are new ones to tweeze regularly. I am still only at the tip of the iceberg, though. A lot of long whiskers lie dormant, ready to crop up in my future.
At least hair removal products are getting better, right?
And then I thought, WAIT! Why do I feel pressure like this? Why? Because society tells me I should not have hair, except on my head, and as we all know, society is a bunch of bastards.
Well screw that.
So in honor of “No Shave November”, I am going to use this opportunity to mount a campaign for whisker acceptance. Whisker acceptance no matter the sex.
But first? I need to check the mirror…
(I will be camping for a few days. Forgive any lack of posts or for not reading your blogs. The Enchanted Forest may have fairies but the WiFi is pretty darn spotty.)