Not By the Hair of My Chinny-Chin-Chins

My poor daughters. If they are anything like me, they will realize one day while in the middle of watching some cleverly penned half-hour of workplace comedy that they have multiple facial hairs that did not get proper permission before sprouting from their secret lairs. I discovered my chin-buddies because of the following conversation:

My grandmother, Kitty, to my mother, Charlotte: “Chaaaaahlotte, pull this hay-uh fuh me. I cain’t see up under thay-uh.” She juts out her chin for better viewing.

My mother: “Pull mine first.”

Holy shitballs. If both of them have one…My twenty-year-old self hightailed it to the nearest mirror and strained to see what lurked beneath my jiggly jaw line. And there it was! The fucker had been there so long it was spiraling. Spiraling, people. I almost puked. I snatched that sumbitch out of my fatty flesh faster than a naked toddler wandering in traffic ends up at DFACS.

I have a right to know, and I want to know NOW. Why, why, why if hair has to go away as we age, why can’t all the hair in my legs fall out? Or the mustache hair? Why can’t that go? Shit. I can donate the hair on my face to Locks of Love, but I look like a seventy-year-old man at the crown. There are only so many ways a girl can pull off a comb-over.

You know what adds insult to injury? I have to lift and separate my chins to find those little follicle-fucking bastards these days. God forbid anyone catches me laughing in a picture. I tend to pull back my head so that there’s no neck within 500 yards. The only discernible features are teeth and eye slits floating in a puddle of flesh, barely visible. They are eclipsed by the shadow of my monster chin hair.

Wait Hate

I hate waiting. Waiting sucks large beefy balls with coarse hair. I spend at least fifteen minutes waiting in traffic on the way to work, one way. I make the trip twelve times a week. That’s…a lot of minutes, which adds up to hours. You do the math because I’m tired. But the point is that I could be doing all kinds of exciting and productive things with the hunnnnnndreds of hours I waste each year waiting. I am sure that cures for cancer, poverty, AIDS, illiteracy and chin hairs on women have not been discovered because researchers were in fucking lines instead of back at the lab discovering miracles.

My favorite type of waiting is at the doctor’s office because there is nothing like flipping through a two-year-old golf magazine to pass the time. Doctors continue the practice of populating their waiting rooms with mindsucking materials because they allow their staff to book sixteen patients for each fifteen minutes in the day, and they’re hoping that the crowd will thin out a little from boredom-related deaths.

The best waiting ever is at Walmart. I just cannot beat standing in the 20-items-or-less (“FEWER,” Walmart! FEWER.) EXPRESS lane with my ONE item for 35 minutes while the couple who came over from the old country unload twin buggies of supplies for the apparent start-up of their soon-to-be-robbed convenience store. I know they probably can’t read since they don’t know the language yet, but how hard is it to learn Spanish? And aren’t numbers uni-fucking-versal? How difficult would it have been for a WM employee to  direct the assholes kindly to a regular line? Noooo. It’s way better just to prevent the discovery of the secret of string theory. I almost had it too but I had to go to Walmart for some string.