Let’s talk today about a rite of passage that your mom, her mom and her moms mom dealt with. Let me start with a story.
Today at my desk, something caught my attention from the corner of my eye. Panic ensued as I looked down at my forearm to see a hair. Not just any hair mind you, this sucker was a monster 6 foot long (slight exaggeration), beast.
My heart raced as I awkwardly squealed, covered the bean stock growing out of my arm. Panic ensued as I searched my desk for my scissors. My office mate looked up from her desk puzzled from the commotion that had just blown through our silent office like a freight train. I quickly spun my chair around, and she returned to her work.
I felt like a mad scientist, or maybe the mad hatter. Do I cut it? Or do I pluck it?! My inner monologue and I battled what to do, at which time I am sure a few choice words even escaped from my clenched jaw.
A choice had been made.
Quickly I grabbed the scissors and snipped the hair before there was time to change my mind.
And just like that, the problem was gone.
Growing up I remember sitting in the bathroom and watching as my mother explained about the one pesky hair. This single hair would always grow back in that same spot on her face. I saw mothers in TV shows, and those always panicked ladies on infomercials, struggling with life as they plucked those pesky hairs, and addressed their problem areas with bleach (the dreaded momstasche).
Naive Katie assumed it would never happen to her (as most youth do). Yet, here I am baring my soul to you as a late twenty something, mom of three, with a Guinness Record breaking arm hair, and that one pesky follicle of facial hair, that forces me to visit my X10 magnification mirror once a month. It happened to me. It happens to all of us. And if you say it hasn’t, you’re lying.
So ladies, let’s enjoy this ‘rite of passage’, this next phase of our lives that shows us we are just like the great women who raised us.