The interloper. The stand-out. The one little black stalk on an otherwise vast expanse of fuzzy, light, downy, girlie hair. What the hell are you doing here? I’m not even 40 yet. I pluck you out, but every couple of weeks you’re back. Like a membership to one of those mail-order places, you get something whether you want it or not. And you keep paying, because you don’t know what else to do.
So what are you a harbinger of, little hair? Early menopause? Hormone problems? I see a long future stretched out in front of me, constantly on the watch for those signs of aging no one wants to see. The wiry grey hairs on my head soon show up sprouting out of my ears. Greying hair on my eyebrows also starts showing up in my lady garden. The stark realization that my double chin has nothing to do with weight gain and everything to do with sagging skin. My once creamy smooth hands turning spotted and wrinkled. Groaning every time I get out of a sitting position – something I tease my parents about. Realizing that my monthly cycle, normally like clockwork, has started breaking down – a watch that may have been wound one too many times. In a few very short years the admiring glances from men on the street will be for my daughter, not for me. How am I supposed to handle that?
40 may be the new 20, but someone forgot to tell my hormones. And my joints. And my eyesight. That someone needs to tell the little black hair on my chin to bugger off for a few more years. I’m not done being young yet.
