I have a whisker on my cheek.
Not a chin whisker, I've been sprouting those for years now. Not a boob whisker, I've been plucking those for almost a decade.
(Sorry to kill any hair-free boob fantasies you may have held.)
A cheek whisker. Like the ones my husband and my son grow and shave off when the mood strikes them. Except, unlike the whiskers Bruce and Nash grow, this whisker is not blonde.
No. It's long and black. A thick wirey whisker. Pointing out of my cheek like it's an old fashioned radio antenna looking for a signal.
You know who grows cheek whiskers? Men and old women. I'm too young to be old so the only logical conclusion is I'm turning into a man.
To add insult to hairy injury, my whisker moves. I can never catch it to pluck it. Oh sure, I'll crane my head, use two mirrors, the brightest lights and the sharpest tweezers, but I can never find it. I'll think to myself, "oh, it was a false alarm, that long hair I was just fondling, it doesn't really exist." And I'll put the tweezers and the mirrors down and turn off the bright lights and walk away.
My tricky whisker? It is still there. I'm walking around with a whisker. It's similar to walking around with toilet paper stuck to one's shoe. You don't notice it until someone points it out and then you die of mortification.
"Um, Tanis? There is something on your cheek. It looks like a smudge."
I rub my cheek, and ask "Is it gone?" and that's when they'll furrow their brows and then look closer and I can tell the moment they realize what it is that caught their eye.
"Oh! It's not a smudge! It's a WHISKER! Holy, it's kinda long!" And then they'll proceed to try and yank it out of my face except they will only succeed in pinching my skin and shaming me. My tricky whisker will live on to see another day.
Rinse and repeat. Day after day.
I know the day is coming that soon my tricky whisker will have company. I'll soon sprout a field full of cheek whiskers. There is no such thing as a sole whisker. They get lonely. Ask my chin. Or my chest.
My immediate future.
I turned 37 and it all went to crap. My fine lines are actual wrinkles, I've old lady acne and now, man hair. On top of all of this, there is no way anyone could ever use the word 'perky' to describe me unless they're talking about my sparkling personality.
Don't get me wrong. I'm healthy and I'm happy. I'm just also kinda hairy now. In ways I never was before. I look at my beautiful daughter, morphing into a woman, more so every day, and I marvel. I once looked like that.
Smooth. Whiskerless. Youthful.
She's an unlined blank canvass, ready to take on womanhood.
I can't wait for her whiskers to come in.
Misery loves company after all.
Next up: neck whiskers and a full beard!
Bruce has since informed me that I already have neck whiskers. He said he didn't want to point them out to me because I get all weird and hysterical about stuff like that but he insists they are cute. And by cute, he means, turn to the left and lean a bit because if I stand in the right spot while he's playing games online, he's convinced all my whiskers will help channel faster Internet signal into his Xbox.
I've since scheduled to have everything between my forehead and my belly button waxed.
I'm also looking into traveling circuses. Anyone need a bearded lady?