Mustached Mama

I have a mustache.  I am not proud of it.  It isn't black, nor is it too thick.  A swipe of a razor, or a dab of Nair occasionally,  does the trick.  Like strays on my eyebrows, it is merely an annoyance.

Grandma D lived at Benetwood, a senior community in the semi-wilds of Harborcreek, PA.  I vividly  remember the day she had a falling-out with a friend. Through clenched teeth she said, "You ever tell anyone about this, and I'll tell them all you've got a mustache!"  Shocking, especially since my German-ancestored Grandma sported a cursed one of her own.

The mustache was brought to the forefront not by my husband (who, if he had even noticed it, never commented), nor by any of my friends, some of whom had their own.  No, my less-than-diplomatic sons mentioned the fact that Mom needed a shave.  I, frankly, never paid attention.

I studied my face closely after listening to the sniggers of my boys, and sure enough, there they were. A few silky hairs, not bad, just enough to screech at 150 decibels, "MENOPAUSAL WOMAN HERE!" My hubby's razor lay on the sink.  Scrape!  Mercifully, I did not compound the trauma by cutting myself and have to resort to wearing tissue on my face.  At least the hirsute lip was clean.  A little make-up and I was once again all woman, younger for having lost the five o'clock shadow.

Since that fateful day I check carefully each and every morning.  I've no desire to have a client call me "mister".  In case I should lapse, I've taken to wearing lower-cut blouses and bigger earrings, darker eyeliner and extra mascara.  My boys will never have to point out a hair on my chin or growing from my ears.

I am woman. Hear me roar.