There is one hair that grows on the underside of my chin pointed the wrong direction.
I shave with an electric razor which does a good job in that area. It’s completely smooth when I’m finished. Except for that one hair. No matter how many times I go over that spot in whichever direction it doesn’t get cut. If I don’t shave for a few days and then use the razor, it does get cut, but just the same as if I shaved every day.
In other words, there is always one rogue whisker I can feel under my chin.
I only found the hair about a year ago. For some reason I was stroking the underside of my face intently. I was most likely engaged in some deep thinking and assumed the appropriate posture. Or maybe I was sitting on the toilet practicing my Rodin (as I’m known to do). Either way, I found imperfection.
And it bugs the shit out of me.
Now, my body is riddled with imperfection. I don’t expect my head hair to sit “just so” or my abs to lay flat or even the scar on my fanny to disappear. None of that stuff bothers me. But, for some reason I am consumed with the idea of removing this wayward follicle. I suppose this is normal. You see a white head hair, and if you have just a few, you pluck them.
By the way, single ladies, if you have a boob hair or two – don’t let the next guy who sleeps with you to find them. This happened to me once. I found three big ones on a young lovely, and mind you, I wasn’t looking for them. She was Italian, so this made sense. If you’re a married woman your husband is probably fantasizing about somebody else anyway, so feel free to grow ’em out.
Here’s the rub with my funky chin hair. It’s too small to pluck. After a day of growth it gets chopped down by the razor. Too short to yank but long enough where I can feel it. I’ll grab tweezers, sit on the counter in my bathroom, and try to find it. It’s nearly impossible to see, and even when I do it’s half of a half of a millimeter. The tweezers can’t grab unless I get lucky.
Now, why can’t I ignore the hair, like I ignore the extra fifteen pounds of fat I carry? I don’t know. I just can’t. It bothers me like nothing else.
When I feel the hair I only have one thought each time I feel it. THIS MUST BE REMOVED. Sometimes I’ll wait until the next morning so that a full day of growth may allow for a pluck. Other times I try to grab it with my fingernails while watching television. I’ll do the tweezers thing at night while brushing my teeth.
Over the last year I’ve become skilled at grabbing it. Once I feel it, within two days I’ll be able to grab it with the tweezers and yank. It’s the most satisfying feeling to remove it and then rub the chin. All the stubble then feels exactly the same. Perfection is restored.
Last night was one of these instances. I got lucky and yanked the hair. For an hour I stroked that smooth (rough) area of my beard with delight. But now, on Saturday night, I admit that I miss the hair.
I’m so used to the struggle of removing the hair that I don’t feel normal with it being gone. The beard hair will return in about seven to ten days, but even tonight I find myself rubbing the area in hopes I can find another one just like it. I guess it would give me something to do, or an easy obstacle to hurdle. I have no idea why this is an obsession, albeit a benign one.
I know we all have our quirks, but I can’t be the only person who obsesses about a funky hair. I’m amazed how often I find myself saying, “You’re thirty-six and just spent ten minutes with tweezers trying to grab a hair that is going to grow back in ten days and that you’ll miss within an hour of plucking it.”
I think I may need to get out more.
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