Toe Nail Clippers
Yesterday morning, I got to see one of the fun tricks being 37 plays on you. I spied that apparently overnight, four longish chin hairs had decided to make an appearance. So, I started my hunt. For my good tweezers.
After years of plucking stray eyebrow hairs with a poorly designed pair, I had bought expensive tweezers. By expensive I mean over $3, but under $5.
The old pair of pluckers was the worst design ever. They had the rounded edges. The design team of crappy tweezers must have sat around trying to replicate the sensation of using two newborn baby’s tiny fists to grab a hair. Slippery, inaccurate, and frustrating.
After cursing a blue streak at them one day, I realized there must be a better design. And made a mental note to grab a nice pair next time I was at the store.
Two years after that, I remembered to buy them. My mental notes are like throwing a message in a bottle at the seashore. You have no idea when they will find you.
So I purchased the high-class pluckers, for high class random hairs. They were like two razor blades sodered onto a sleek pincer. I came home and waged war on my facial hair. Anything that glinted in my harsh bathroom light was whipped away. I went overboard. Who knew that some of the hair on your face denotes personality and expression?
I stepped away from my overzealous pluck mania. I was surprised. My face was as smooth as a newly painted wall. I stopped feeling surprised, but my face refused to calm down.
Too much, I had plucked too much of my eyebrows.
For about the next two weeks, I spent much of my time explaining to the other humans I encountered that I was okay. I was not just back from witnessing a ghost. I was not carrying a pile of tacks in my underwear.
By the time the eyebrows had resumed their shape, I had lost my new tweezers/razors. Maybe it was divine intervention.
I went back to the trusty newborn baby fist pluckers.
Because I was now too stubborn to go out and replace the expensive tweezers.
When the errant, offensive 37 year old chin hairs alarmed me in the mirror, I began the hunt. For the tweezers. Preferably, the ones that meant business. I could recall the smoothness that they had inflicted on me. While searching, I could not help but keep on stroking the new hairs like Col. Sanders thinking about fried chicken.
The hairs were so coarse. I kept peeking in the mirror while ransacking my bathroom cabinet.
Oh Crap! One of the four hairs is black! Black! I feel like my chin is giving me the finger. What kind of crazy hormone is turning one chin hair black?
I give up on finding the fabulous, lethal razor tweezers, the Angelina Jolie of pluckers, if you will. I start searching for the baby fist tweezers.
Anything will do!
I feel like there is a spotlight on my chin now. If I don’t get them plucked soon, they will turn into a full-fledged goatee. Baby fists are missing too.
I'm ready to loose my plucking mind.
I spy out of my panicked eye, the toenail clippers. I seize them and run into my bedroom so I can get real close to the mirror.
Plucking chin hairs with a toenail clipper is tricky business. I wish I could say I have no experience with using toenail clippers for unconventional things, but you know and I know, I can’t.
Sometimes, I use them for scissors. Little, tiny inaccurate scissors.
So, I line up the clippers and the hair. I bite my bottom lip and stick my chin out like Jay Leno. I close one eye.
The husband walks in and sees me.
The husband wisely walks right out again without saying anything.
I focus back on the hair. I try and pluck just before I clip. Because if I cut them, well, then I'll just be trimming them back some. And that does not teach the hairs a lesson at all. Actually, trimming them makes them feel special and loved.
Turns out trying to judge the exact thickness of a chin hair is kind of hard. I wound up trimming them. Like a hedge. Or a Christmas tree.
Somebody remind me to buy expensive clippers again before the hair grows back.