Things my mother never told me, Part I

So.  I spend a lot of time working on computers.  And while staring at the screen reviewing my masterpieces, I prop my chin on my hand.  Except for, wait, ouch – what the …?  No, my arm is not asleep; I’m being pricked by - dun-dun-dun -chin hair. 

Okay, so I know that I am on a hair kick lately.  But this is more about hair where there wasn’t hair before.  I guess I always knew that my mom had chin hairs.  But she was, you know, old.  I mean, help me here, 50 isn’t old, right?  RIGHT?  Momma never told me there’s be hairs like these.

Sigh.  So, I imagined how that iconic mother-daughter conversation would go in 1973 when I was about 12 years old after learning about…you know.  Go back with me in time and reimagine this conversation…

(If you’re my age, picture or remember your mom delivering this cheery monologue in a sweet, sing-song voice, weeping slightly…)

“Well, you’re such a big girl now!  Now you know sweetie, that every month you’ll be visited by a horrible week of bloating and cramps and some facial pimples that mommy promises you will clear up by the time you are, well, you know sweetie, older!  And that ‘monthly visitor’ (slightly whispered) means that in 20 years or so, after you’re married and have a house you’ll have lots of babies!” 

And as you’re slinking from the room, staring into the bleak oblivion of your future as a mature woman, what if your Mom had added these gems to the pile…

Sing-song voice (only now with a slight edge)…”Well, now.  Don’t be sad, sugar!  This doesn’t last forever.  No, silly, one day your visitor won’t come anymore.”  Pausing here, looking a bit befuddled, she continues, her sing-song voice dropping down a notch.  “No, one day the visitor just doesn’t come anymore, but you sort of don’t notice because you’ll be so busy changing the bed sheets and washing your jammies from all the sweating, you know, even though it isn’t summer.”  Faltering even more, she hesitates, “Well, you won’t sleep very much, but you DO get more jewelry from your husband for some reason and, and…you’ll want to buy lots and lots of Kleenex boxes.”  Her voice dwindles away, as she stares ahead at nothing in particular.  You quietly whisper, “Mom, can I uh, go now?”  Shaking herself like a retriever, she smiles and nods.  “Ok, honey, you go on now.  Nothing to worry about here!”  And you just about make it to the door, when she calls out in that damned sing-song pitch again.  “Oh and honey, just a few more things.  The hair on your head will go gray, the hair on your upper lip will turn pitch black and the hair on your chinney-chin-chin will turn black, gray and white!  But don’t worry about finding those – they stick out, sharp as little razors!”  Horrified, you put your hands to your face, feeling for any incipient or wildly growing hairs.  “Pumpkin, don’t worry,” mom cajoles.  “Your eyesight will be so bad; you won’t be able to see them anyway.  Buh-bye now.  Have a good day!”

Wait guys, come back, COME BACK!  Repeat after me, it isn’t real, it isn't real.  It's just you know, all true. 

Well, I’m off to pluck.  With any luck and good bifocals, I’ll get the hairs on my chin.  If you see me with an eye patch though, try not to stare…