pick, pluck, squeeze, tweeze

It’s a sad but true fact that I am a picker. If I see a blackhead or pimple anywhere in a 20-mile radius I hone in on it like enemy missiles on radar. Granted, I don’t go after strangers, but I have been known to ambush a loved one in order to pop a zit. And don’t get me started on errant hairs. They literally drive me crazy.

when fashion meets function

when fashion meets function

I have Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS) which has gifted me with many wonderful symptoms, such as a discolored ring around my neck* (tangent: during my senior year of high school Kay Windisch told me my neck was dirty, and asked me if I ever washed it. I was mortified, as I’ve been dealing with this weird neck stain since my teens – didn’t know why then – and for the past 19 years I have literally SCRUBBED my neck raw every single day with a fingernail brush. I am not even close to exaggerating. So fuck you, Kay – my neck wasn’t dirty then, and it isn’t dirty now. Just sayin’. Also, way to be rude.) Other symptoms include extra acne (my paternal lineage is of the greasy bohunk variety, so this is one area where I didn’t need help), a propensity to pack on the pounds (again, didn’t need HELP), and oh, my favorite treat, a little something I call lady hairs. 

What’s a lady hair, you might ask yourself, not having learned that oh-so-scientific term in school. In my lexicon, lady hairs are the random hairs on a woman’s body that sprout up where they don’t belong – let’s just say the chin, for example. They’re usually dark in color and coarse in texture, and they have the ability to grow at the speed of light. I’ve gone to bed with not a single lady hair to be found, only to wake up with inch-long black tendrils sprouting from my chin. Lady hairs happen to most women as they age, but because of the PCOS, mine kicked in during my early 20s. They are humiliating. We live in a hairless culture, and while I’m fortunate enough to only need to shave my legs once or twice a month, I have to patrol my face and torso for whiskers daily. I guess I should just thank God I don’t have hair on my back. Or my knuckles.

I’m probably also the only woman in the world who wishes her boyfriend would have bacne so she could have a hobby. Poor Jason, with his blemish-free skin. The moment he gets a sweat pimple or an eyebrow hair out of place I’m at him like Sarah Palin on a wolf. I will not stop until I’ve made my kill!

a paperclip will work in a pinch

a paperclip will work in a pinch

 I’m outing myself so if you see me and I have a lady hair, please tell me. And if you’d like to hire me as a professional zit popper, depending on your hygiene and the location of your zits, we may be able to work something out (I never said I wasn’t picky about who I groomed. Oh my, an inadvertent pun!) And while we’re at it, if I have food in my teeth or a pen mark on my face, please feel free to tell me those things, too. I have enough to worry about already.

*only one of the reasons I lament that not being able to wear a turtleneck year ’round. I’m no Diane Keaton.

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6 thoughts on “pick, pluck, squeeze, tweeze

  1. OMG. I will lay in bed for an hour with my light on, waiting for Hubs to go to sleep so that I can quietly attempt to erupt Mt. Saint Zitto on his back. They drive me nuts and I must pop them. It’s like a horrid itch I can’t scratch.

    Popping anything is fab. I knew I loved you for more than your affection for punching ponies in the butt.

    I have random hairs that grow out of my upper cheeks and one out of my chinny chin chin. Bitches.

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