I’m a natural blonde.
- Free highlights every time I step outside
- No need to pay $80 a month to dye my hair blonde like most of the rest of America
- Ability to skip shaving legs when no one will get close enough to actually touch it
- No real need to start waxing errant facial hair, since what grows there is fine, sheer, and virtually unnoticeable
- Also means I am practically Albino, with sunburn-prone, extremely sensitive skin
- I’ve been told every single Dumb Blonde Joke in existence about 384,612 times, every time the teller thinking it would be the first time I heard it (As if.)
- MidLife Facial Hair sneaks up with violent vengefulness like some follicular Guerilla Warfare Attack.
Please allow me to expand on that last bullet.
I expected my pregnancies to have their (temporary) issues. I faced the usual maladies that correspond with growing a uterine parasite (hemorrhoids, painful boobs, fat thighs). I admit I was a little surprised by the bacne (Mr T), and completely caught off-guard by the mutton chops (Miss A).
While pregnant with Miss A, I grew more hair on my cheeks than Wolverine himself.
But alas, I waxed it off, eventually I pushed my child outta me, the hormones waned, my face became a bit more naturally exposed to the elements, a fur-free relief to all.
My 35th birthday is coming up in a month.
I am one of those very much annoying adults who celebrate their birthday for a full 7 days (minimally), tossing out reminders of the exact date about one month in advance. I love that fact that I was born plus I love cake. What others reasons do I need to party like it’s 1999 over and over and over again?
I don’t look at birthdays with scorn. Being alive is totally better than the whole ‘dead’ option.
All this “Ain’t life grand?” la-di-dah causes a bit of naiveté on my part regarding the stuff that surrounds actually getting older.
Last week Hubby and I were looking in our respective bathroom mirrors getting ready in the morning. I was petting my barely perceptible unibrow which I planned to get waxed off soon and said:
Me: “Babe, aren’t you glad I’m a blonde so when I grow facial hair you can’t really see it very well?”
Hubby: (In an all-too-casual tone) “Oh, I see it. I just don’t talk about it.”
Me: (blanching in horror at his sweet yet brutal honesty)
Needless to say, when I got to the Wax Lady yesterday I told her about this conversation and demanded she thoroughly inspect every hair follicle on my face for growth. I had my AMEX in hand and wasn’t afraid to use it.
Twenty (painful) minutes later, I no longer looked like this:
Pleased that I didn’t have a full beard and Fu Man Chu to top it off, I meet a friend for coffee.
Explaining my relief of appearing more like a Lady than a Homeless Dude, she looked at me, pointed to my upper lip and said “You’re putting Witch Hazel on that, right?”
Upon my blank stare, she explained that when one gets her Lady ‘Stache waxed off there is increased likelihood of breakouts. Zits. Rash. REDNESS.
Today I can already see the tiny bumps forming on my pinkish flesh. I’m getting older and uglier by the minute.
In my youth I neither had acne nor facial hair. It seems I have taken this for granted for too long and am being taught a lession by The Pretty Police.
Now it appears my two options in Life are to walk around looking like a Wookie or pubescent teenaged boy. This doesn’t happen to young girls, this happens to old biddies. Like me.
(Yes, I just realized I’m not young anymore. I’m a bit slow.)
All I wanted to do this week was get my blonde hair trimmed and eyebrows cleaned up (ie: finagle the 1 back into 2) so I could look good for the big holiday party I host this weekend.
Now I feel the need to see whether that natural blonde hair I appreciated for so long has begun growing out of my ears yet.
Isn’t getting older just super?
Off to stock up on a ski mask, Geritol and some Osteo-Flex for the party…….have a great weekend, everyone (she says, while leaning on her walker to wave a weary hand)!