When my darling and I stood in front of a suitable assembly of wedding-attired friends and family we vowed to have each other’s backs. Not literally, I’m paraphrasing obviously, but that is the gist of the vows.
Perhaps I should have clarified with my then husband-to-be what exactly that meant in terms of responsibility for mutual care as we grow old together, but my younger self made assumptions, and he assumed my younger self as we made them.
It appears he took the part of the vows about loving one another exactly the way we are a bit too close to heart, and didn’t get implied the part about shielding one another from the stark reality of exactly who we inevitably become.
And OH! What has become of me?
I’m growing whiskers. Don’t laugh. I’m perimenopausal and the ebbing estrogen has opened the door to rogue chin hairs.
How do I know this? I can’t see under my chin. So how do I know about the offending hair?
My hairdresser. During my last appointment she paused, dashed across the salon, and came back with tweezers. She said the hair had been growing for a few months and asked if I’d like it gone.
Of course I want it gone. I don’t dye my hair just to have one rogue whisker on my chin betray my age.
When I got home I told my husband all about how my hairdresser had saved me.
“Thank goodness, that whisker was really bothering me!” is what he said.
He knew about the whisker. All that time. He knew and never said a word.
Am I crazy or was it not his job as a dutiful husband to not only point out that his bride was becoming a goat-haired hobo?
He tried to defend himself by insisting it wasn’t a goat hair, but a kitten whisker. Cute. But, no.
I forgave him on one condition. It is now his job to deal with the whisker.
So, not only have I had to deal with the effects of time on my face, our relationship has also fallen prey to this women’s madness.
One Saturday of every month before we retire to bed, my dearest puts on his reading glasses, pulls out the tweezers, and gets down on his knees in front of me to help me maintain the illusion of youth.
The moments between sundown and sleep used to be so different.
Saturday night used to be diff
Berni with flash light n tweezers
Berni needing reading glasses to do it