There's one thing women don't discuss unless they are four tequilas deep. Chin hair.
All women have it (yes, ALL women. If you don’t believe me, give your nearest woman those four tequilas and ask her if she has chin hair. Not if she’s driving a bus or something at the time, though. And not if you are trying to get cosy with her in the bedroom either. You know what, just leave it, you can’t be trusted).
It started around puberty. A casual brush of a fingertip under the chin, and there it would be. A lone, wiry hair.
Unlike any other on the human body, this was so thick and tough it could be used to weave a fishing net. It would poke out in a stabby manner.
But even though this vicious little pig hair was so coarse you could feel it creaking out of its follicle, you knew that attacking it with your mum’s borrowed pearl-handled tweezers would be useless.
It was not long enough at just one nanometre. You had learned this the hard way by plucking at it and ending up with nothing but a scab from where you’d pinched your own skin.
But soon you had the purchase to drag it out of its follicle. Out it would come, wiry and cross. But then, just the next day, there it would be again.
It took me a very long time to realise this was not one solitary rapidly sprouting super pig-hair that would grow back almost immediately, but a whole family of piglet hairs who lived just micromillimetres from each other, so close knit you couldn’t tell them apart.
Like creepy hair octuplets.
When I discovered this, I was horrified. My poor childish brain didn’t know this was normal. Back then I would desperately keep on top of it. Pluck pluck plucking and Immac-ing, hiding my horrible secret.
Now, it’s quite a different story. Now, I have money to go out and drink tequila and swap beard stories with my friends.
Now, I am brazen. Now, I also have to put my glasses on and use a magnifying mirror, so maintenance is a bit, er, high maintenance. Now, I let the hairs grow. I feel no shame.
One day, in the not so distant future, I will knit them together into a long goatee and put bejewelled beads in it, because this is what happens when you are older and give zero damns.
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This, ladies, is freedom.
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