H is for Hair

“Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin!” said some wolf, somewhere, sometime, in my memory.
And Young Me thought, “That is some weird literature.”
No clue what it meant.
And, friends? I do now.
I know.
The hairs. The chinny chin chin.
But even if you say it cute and sing-song-y, it’s awful.
A customer actually said to me, with eyes down-turned and red streaking across her face, “I have a thing to tell you, and it’s really embarrassing.”
Sweet! I thought. Who doesn’t love a little tiny speck of gossip on occasion?
I waited expectantly. Probably too eager.
She said, “Oh, it’s about you.” And she pointed toward me, standing across the counter from her, quickly inventorying myself: she can’t see my pants, but I’m sure they’re zipped; I don’t remember acne this morning; sure, these shoes are ugly, but they’re comfortable, and at my new age, comfort and pockets are really all I require in a wardrobe.
“Okaaaay…”
“You have a hair…on your chin…”
Still pointing, still not meeting my eyes, because hers were wide with awe, staring at the imagined tangle, the follicular nightmare, I envisioned sprouting from my triple chin.
(I don’t really have a triple chin, because I play “giraffe” all the time and pretend to be peering above all the land, all the time, but in my head, I had three hairs, three chins.)
Of course, I slapped my own face, ridding myself of the invader, but of course I only mashed it. And still, the customer stared on, fascinated.
How was I going to rid myself of this nuisance? And hey, how old is
she? Maybe she shouldn’t be literally pointing fingers!
“Ha ha!” I laughed. Humor was all I had. “This old thing? I keep it there for safe keeping! Curl it every morning. Call it Sal.”
Okay,” she continued, nervously chortling. “Well, I didn’t know if you knew!”
“Ha ha!” I repeated, thinking, IF I KNEW?! She thinks it would have seen the LIGHT OF DAY if I’d KNOWN about it? But like Ricardo Montalban and Fantasy Island, I waved and nagged myself to keep smiling. “Of course! It’s an old friend! Ha ha! Genetics — what can you do? Pluck away, it keeps coming back; we’re a stubborn people! Ha ha!”
Finally, she exited the building.
I haven’t seen her again, now I think of it.
But the hair? Gone. GONE! And daily I scrub my soft fleshy neck, seeking its arrival and any friends that may travel with it.
These things, they love pairing up.
My tweezers are ready.