Bearded lady...
Son number two returned home yesterday for a few days of free food and central heating. His Southern Softy body has yet to acclimatize to the North, and I'm sure that his new university friends believe that he is clinically obese, so numerous are the layers of clothing he wears. I would imagine he resembles a Russian doll when he gets ready for bed each night...
But the cold might explain the new addition to his face....the beginning of a beard.
I am calling it a beard, but to be very honest with you, there have been occasions (and I'm not proud to admit this) when I have achieved far greater things in the facial hair department, usually in the winter months, when there is less chance of bright sunlight drawing attention it.
What is it with Mother Nature? Not content with gifting us with spreading waistlines and wrinkles as us girls get older, she made the decision that at around the age of 45, a beard might be useful. And not just any beard, mind you. No, this is one which grows at Roger Bannister-like speeds, spreading over your chin like mile-a-minute Russian Vine.
When it became apparent that something needed to be done with the facial fur (sounds much better than hair, in my opinion) Miss R suggested that I spoke to my local salon about facial waxing. I only did this once. Coming out of the salon having reached pain levels akin to childbirth without gas and air, my face was bright red from the nose downwards. I'd had to stop in the garage to fill my car up, and walking in to pay with a scarf wrapped around my face's lower half, I'm sure the cashier reached for the panic button, thinking I was about to rob them blind.
I then moved onto hair removal cream. This worked really well, but timing was imperative. Leave it on for 11 minutes and the beard remained in situ. Leave it on for 12, and hair was gone. But go to 13? Hair gone, along with three layers of skin and a mole I was particularly fond of. This also meant that I ran the risk of the husband coming home unexpectedly and discovering me looking like a member of the Ant Hill Mob.
So a few months ago, I decided that now I was akin to something called a 'grown up', something needed to change, and I purchased a tool of torture called an epilator. This is how Wikipedia describes one:
So, a bit like a giant set of tweezers I thought. Eyebrow plucking had never worried me too much, so surely it would be the same?
Idiot...
Now there's one thing pulling out a rogue eyebrow hair. It's a bit like walking down the drive and spotting a leggy weed growing through the shag pile gravel. But using the epilator was like have a JCB run rampant across my chin. And don't get me started on the worst bit - The Upper Lip.
Stretching the space beneath my nose (what is that called anyway?) I look like Kenneth Williams faced with a Hattie Jacques matron, and steeling myself, I run the epilator over my upper lip at a rate of knots. It's a great look, especially when coupled with streaming eyes and a fit of sneezing. But at least it does what it says on the tin.
Worryingly, the epilator came with a free tool for 'more sensitive areas'. Now I can't imagine anything being more sensitive than my poor old chinny chin chin, but I do have some idea of where this is supposed to be used (I read Cosmopolitan magazine sometimes, so I know stuff).
I think we all know where that went, ladies...
I am calling it a beard, but to be very honest with you, there have been occasions (and I'm not proud to admit this) when I have achieved far greater things in the facial hair department, usually in the winter months, when there is less chance of bright sunlight drawing attention it.
What is it with Mother Nature? Not content with gifting us with spreading waistlines and wrinkles as us girls get older, she made the decision that at around the age of 45, a beard might be useful. And not just any beard, mind you. No, this is one which grows at Roger Bannister-like speeds, spreading over your chin like mile-a-minute Russian Vine.
When it became apparent that something needed to be done with the facial fur (sounds much better than hair, in my opinion) Miss R suggested that I spoke to my local salon about facial waxing. I only did this once. Coming out of the salon having reached pain levels akin to childbirth without gas and air, my face was bright red from the nose downwards. I'd had to stop in the garage to fill my car up, and walking in to pay with a scarf wrapped around my face's lower half, I'm sure the cashier reached for the panic button, thinking I was about to rob them blind.
I then moved onto hair removal cream. This worked really well, but timing was imperative. Leave it on for 11 minutes and the beard remained in situ. Leave it on for 12, and hair was gone. But go to 13? Hair gone, along with three layers of skin and a mole I was particularly fond of. This also meant that I ran the risk of the husband coming home unexpectedly and discovering me looking like a member of the Ant Hill Mob.
So a few months ago, I decided that now I was akin to something called a 'grown up', something needed to change, and I purchased a tool of torture called an epilator. This is how Wikipedia describes one:
'An epilator is an electrical device used to remove hair by mechanically grasping multiple hairs simultaneously and pulling them out'.
So, a bit like a giant set of tweezers I thought. Eyebrow plucking had never worried me too much, so surely it would be the same?
Idiot...
Now there's one thing pulling out a rogue eyebrow hair. It's a bit like walking down the drive and spotting a leggy weed growing through the shag pile gravel. But using the epilator was like have a JCB run rampant across my chin. And don't get me started on the worst bit - The Upper Lip.
Stretching the space beneath my nose (what is that called anyway?) I look like Kenneth Williams faced with a Hattie Jacques matron, and steeling myself, I run the epilator over my upper lip at a rate of knots. It's a great look, especially when coupled with streaming eyes and a fit of sneezing. But at least it does what it says on the tin.
Worryingly, the epilator came with a free tool for 'more sensitive areas'. Now I can't imagine anything being more sensitive than my poor old chinny chin chin, but I do have some idea of where this is supposed to be used (I read Cosmopolitan magazine sometimes, so I know stuff).
I think we all know where that went, ladies...
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