Elvis Presley is alive and well and living on the sides of my face. When I forgo the wax, I have sideburns that rival the King’s fattest 1975 sparkly jumpsuit days. So, I go get them ripped off once a month or so. While I am there, I get my eyebrows shaped a little. They are slightly squirrelly, though they are not walrus level bushy.
I have battled facial hair my whole life. Boys in high school told me I needed to shave when they saw the blonde hair on the sides of my face. So I started dry shaving my face whenever I shaved my legs. I stopped when I developed a 5 o’clock shadow. I discovered wax in my 30’s. Even though it would be cheaper, I refuse to do it myself at home because it really hurts. I just know what would happen if I put hot wax on my face. Since I would be DREADING the pain, I would be too afraid to rip it off and then I would be known as “old candle faced Lisa.” It would go on my tombstone along with “She did laundry.” So, my usually fabulous esthetician takes care of it for me.
Recently, something went awry with my esthetician. Maybe I was chatting with her too much, or maybe she thought I was someone else. At any rate, as soon as I felt the hot wax on my lip, I wished I had accepted the free wine when I checked in. I had never, ever, but never requested a mustache wax before, and I hadn’t this time either. I wanted to yell that out to her, but my esthetician was talking about having just finished her chemo for ovarian cancer. I wasn’t about to interrupt her with a “WHAT in the hell are you doing? I don’t have a mustache!!” Then, the cold truth hit. Maybe I DID have a mustache. Maybe she could see it with her fancy dancy magnifying mirror.
I began to wonder how bad this facial hair problem would get. Would I have to condition it or put it in a bun or French braid. Maybe, I could get highlights or peacock colors put in. If I have a mustache at 44, surely I would look like some sort of new breed of mammal by 50. Maybe I would finally get on the Today Show because of it.
I felt my esthetician pat a cloth strip over the warm wax, all while chatting away as though she waxed this mustache of mine all of the time. I dug my nails into my palms, in preparation for the rip. OUCH! The upper lip is even more sensitive than the sides of the face. My sympathies go out to the women who have this done regularly. I won’t be one of them because I have decided that I don’t have a mustache. Nope. The magnifying light must have been faulty.