Moustachio

Be honest. Are you a bit hairy? A wee bit? I think I’ve always had the potential to be a bit stubbly but that potential is now being realised,allowed to bloom,now that I’m 35. I think I may end up as one of those whiskery old women unless I keep myself in check. Grandchildren will wipe away my kisses. I will give itchy kisses. Or if the light hits me in a certain way you’ll see that I have little wispy chin hairs,like a nanny goat.

One of my first encounters with hair removal was when I was maybe nineteen. With hindsight I’m not sure it was that convincing a moustache,I couldn’t twizzle it or anything. But I was acutely aware of it,sure that everyone could see it. So I gave waxing a go. Because when you wax the hair grows in finer,non? But the first strip didn’t seem to have much effect. So I did the same spot again. And again. Damn it,this really wasn’t working. I’ll get a new strip and try again. And again.

You can see where I’m going with this.

I woke in the morning with a perfect red rectangle of weeping sores. Scabbed over by lunchtime I spent some time covering it with concealer. It worked perfectly and I was convinced by my flatmates to go out for coffee sporting a perfect beige rectangle of crusty sores. ‘You can hardly see it.’When I went to the loo I returned to find the three of them had dipped their fingers in the ash tray and drawn on black moustaches. Sitting smoking fags like nothing had happened. Bastards.

To make matters worse I had to dump a rubbish boyfriend that night. He mistook my not looking him in the eye as an attempt to hide my tears,when really I just wanted him to get over it already so I could put on more concealer.

Flash forward to the first weekend visit to my now husband’s family,the first since we’d announced our engagement. With twenty minutes to go before we went to the restaurant with his large family I noticed a couple of rogue top lip hairs. Quick,get the cream out.

I’d learnt from my waxing experience,I was all about the hair lightening cream now.

In a rush I mustn’t have washed it off properly. Throughout the meal my top lip got hotter and hotter. I kept dashing to the loos to splash cold water on it but I was paranoid and spent the whole meal covering my mouth in what I hoped looked like cute modesty. I’m pretty sure I hid my look of horror as the surprise engagement cake was brought out and I saw cameras at the ready. The one photo we have of our engagement dinner shows me,hand over my mouth like a geisha girl,a look of panic in my eye.

I tried electrolysis in the run up to the wedding. They stick a metal needle into your pore and send an electronic current down to zap your hair follicle dead. ‘A safe and pain-free way to remove unwanted hair.’ You think? At one point I nearly lept off the bed and smacked the perfectly nice beautician. ‘Oh’,she said,‘It can be more painful if you are ovulating.‘ Nothing to do with the needle then. Or the electric current. It was my ovaries fault.

After the wedding I think it’s fair to say that I took my foot off the gas a little. Last week I noticed two,dark,nasty looking hairs,ripe for plucking. But I got side-tracked by Baby P waddle-hopping into the bathroom like Ariel,both legs shoved into one pyjama bottom leg. It was a couple of days before I got round to seeing off the offending hairs. Inevitable for a busy working Mum of two? Maybe but I do feel a bit lame.

It dawned on me as I was shaving my legs in preparation for my recent weekend away that I’ve got it the wrong way round. When I’m with the person that I love,my boy,I am happy to go a bit stubbly,to let myself go,to be at one with my hairy bits. Yet,when I’m going to be in the company of strangers on a beach I depilate within an inch of my life. If I were him I think I’d be a little insulted.

Now the girls are witness to my top lip antics. The first time Miss L saw me exit the bathroom with my white top lip she shouted ‘Mummy,you look like Santa.’ And before you ask,no I don’t have a beard. Yet. She was two,what can I say.

When they’re both there,and I step out of the bathroom,they stop what they are doing. Stop talking. Look at each other. Put their books down. Look at each other again. Smirk.  ‘What is she up to?’ I can see them think. ‘Does she know that she has something on her top lip?’

‘Was-aaa Mum?’,Baby P asks.

‘Mummy’s cream’,I reply.

They don’t need to know any more right now. They don’t need to know that it’s probably hereditary and they will be plucking by the time they’re eighteen,Joleen-ing by nineteen,zapping by twenty and saving up for laser by twenty one.

Photo credit –Raul