A hairy morning without the right tools
”
It’s great to be female,
”
I chuckled to myself. The woman in the car stopped at the light
on Leavesley and Monterey roads was engrossed in her own reflection
in her rearview mirror. I didn’t want to stare, but it was like a
train wreck.
A hairy morning without the right tools
“It’s great to be female,” I chuckled to myself. The woman in the car stopped at the light on Leavesley and Monterey roads was engrossed in her own reflection in her rearview mirror. I didn’t want to stare, but it was like a train wreck.
In one hand, she clasped a cell phone, in the other, tweezers. And she was making the most of the “good lighting.” You women know what I mean. For all of you men out there, let me just say that what you shave in the shower or over your sink in the morning, is what we have to pluck in the front seat of our cars in broad daylight because no amount of filtered lighting or open windows in our bathroom will reveal the errant, stubborn black hair that shows itself like ebony magic marker against pasty white skin, even in the middle of summer, if you’re of Irish decent.
It never fails. You’re all dressed for your day, makeup applied perfectly, not a hair out of place. (on your scalp anyway) and you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror as you’re belting out Stevie Nicks and Tom Petty’s “Stop Draggin’ My Heart Around.” You stop smack in the middle of Stevie’s soulful croaking.
What’s that black dot? I washed my face twice this morning. (Women do that).
You brush it away. Or so you think until you’re in mid chorus with Tom and Stevie.
What the heck is that?
On close examination, your worst fear is confirmed.
Oh, no. It’s starting! And I am not even close to menopause.
You rummage around in your purse, looking for something like a tweezer – something that can act as a tweezer, because up until this point in your life, you’ve never had the need to leave your house with an actual tweezer.
Shoot. No luck. Do I have concealer? How much should I pack on there?
Karl Malden’s voice creeps into your head as you’re now dumping the contents of your purse onto the seat next to you, searching for WOMC. That’s Weapons of Mass Construction, for this job.
“Don’t leave home without it,” Karl taunted in the old American Express ads from the 1970s. He’s mocking you, as half the loot slides off the far edge of the seat. Now it’s all wedged between the door and the seat, so when you open the door to retrieve it, it lands on the ground in a cascade of coins, lipsticks and Tampax, like you just won the jackpot in some bag lady’s Vegas dream.
This can’t be happening, you think to yourself. You’re more than halfway to work by this time, so you can’t turn around. You make mental calculations about which side you’ll be presenting to people all day and then imagine you’ll have to walk sideways through most of it. Or you could look perpetually surprised or pensive, depending on the circumstance, with your hand pressed to your face. You hope you can bury your face in file folders and presentation notes.
In the parking lot at work, you try to gather all the stuff that fell onto the floor within reach, noticing that not only do you need a shave, but you also apparently need Weight Watchers because it’s not as easy to bend over today as it was last week.
Oh, wait; seat belt’s still on. Whew. OK, so I have a beard, but I can still bend over.
Once you’ve assembled yourself as much and as well as you can, you make your usual entrance and say hello to those you encounter, tilting your head ever so slightly.
Rounding the corner, you happen upon one of your male coworkers. He’s got toilet paper stuck to his chin. You envy him. He can shave, cut himself and not feel the least bit embarrassed about walking around with TP stuck to his face.
You, on the other hand have to wait for tweezers and the “good lighting.”
