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I sometimes wonder who will be responsible for removing my unwanted facial and body hair when I’m very old and can no longer do it myself. I don’t want to be sitting in a nursing home with a full-on mustache. Sitting in a nursing home would be bad enough. But when someone’s visiting grandchild walks trepidatiously through the Pine Sol and Vick’s VapoRub-scented hallways, politely smiling at the seated, crumpled ancients who line the walls, I don’t want to be the one she looks at and thinks, “My God, that woman has a mighty ‘stache. That won’t be me one day. It just can’t.

Dear God, why did you give me so much excess body hair? Where, in Your Great Plan, does it fit in? Did at some point a mustache on a woman make her more appealing to the more strapping of the male species? Triggering a grunt and the idea of future, equally strapping, hairy children? Wide-hipped maids, strong on plow? Is it there to test my patience with searing hot wax, first microwaved (for way too long the first time) and then dribbled and smeared awkwardly onto my lip and inevitably onto my new shirt (DAMN IT!), the floor and my slippers?

All-Knowing Yahweh, did you plant the hair that sprouts forth on my large toes and tops of my feet as a life lesson? I cried because I had no shoes, then I met a man with no feet. Then I looked down at my shoeless, hairy feet and said, “Fuck.”

Two words: Unhappy Trail.

Is this razor burn rash and in-grown hairs that riddle my bikini zone a form of self-flagellation so that I remember the suffering of others? As well as my own suffering? Because I am so very hairy? Is that circular logic?

I shave and pluck and wax to undo this that You have done. I knick and cut, I burn and pinch. I have Naired my b-hole, for goodness’ sake. (Note: DO NOT NAIR YOUR B-HOLE.) But still, it all returns.

Merciful Elohim, what purpose does the tiny nipple hair serve Thee? I mean. Come on. Really? Even there? Sigh.

If I believed in you at all, I would have a hair to pluck with you.

I have very few wishes for myself. I hope to be able to live a happy, simple life with good friends, good food and good stories. I hope my child is forever happy and healthy. I hope to learn how to cook. I’d like to travel some more in time. And I hope that, having not won the lottery and therefore able to afford complete laser hair removal, I will have a dedicated grandchild or paid caretaker who will pull out the hairs from my deeply creased face as I sit in my wheelchair, smelling of VapoRub.

Drool may pool, my eyes my cloud, I may not remember your name nor mine, for that matter. But please. Please. Please wax my mustache.

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