the family curse

One of the more annoying features of my German-ness is the whiskers that increasingly grow out of my face. I spend an inordinate amount of time feeling around for them with my fingertips and standing in front of my bathroom mirror wrestling them out with tweezers.

I’m not the only one in my family to bear this curse. Aunt S used to come to my salon, where I would be quietly horrified as I smeared wax down her chin and neck, over her persistently wiry whiskers. I was mid-20s at the time and had sprouted a couple of baby chin hairs myself, but my situation was not as dire as hers, so it was easy to distance myself from the future that sat before me.

I could never tend to my facial hair the way she does, though, as that would require letting my whiskers grow long enough for the wax to grab onto. No thank you.

I wish I could be like the cute waitress at the beach warung, who shamelessly rocks a large mole with a lush forest of witchy black hairs sprouting forth from it. But, alas, I am not.

I often think I’ll get my whiskers lasered off as soon as it makes financial sense to do so. But then, I wonder, what would I do with all my free time?

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