It is a rather unfortunate circumstance to find yourself in – realizing that your own mustache rivals your brother’s. We compared them while I was home and he had me edged out by an eighth of an inch. Drats. I bet you think I’m kidding or exaggerating in any event. Ask Danny. He really didn’t know what to say.
I tried to ignore the ghastly sight for weeks, if not months, by refusing to look closely in the mirror. For surely if I didn’t see the shadow then it didn’t exist. But it was like the vine in Jack and the Beanstalk. It kept growing and growing and growing…
Last night I bit the bullet and had the thing taken care of. It is the most excruciatingly painful thing to have a stache ripped off your face with hot wax, but it was necessary. I have a feeling Paul didn’t envision his bride with a beard when he said, “I do.”
While I was at it, I said adieu to the uni brow as well. Swollen face aside, it was for the best.
The brutal procedure was performed at a local beauty salon. The kind where you wait in the lobby reading about celebrity whatnot until your hairdresser comes to get you.
So I’m sitting there and I hear, “Kristin” and I lift my head up to greet whomever. And in one glance, my heart sinks. The poor sweetheart of a lady – for she really was a doll – was in fact, the hairiest woman that I have ever seen. She had so much facial hair, I can’t even begin to describe it.
This made the whole ordeal even more awkward than normal. Though she did her thing – ripping with delight and glee I’m sure – I reclined in the chair, with tear filled eyes, feeling very uneasy about the irony of it all. I didn’t know what to think.