Let’s Talk About My Mustache

11 Mar

Let’s talk about my mustache.

Or, Jesus Christ let’s not. I’m mortified already. Generally the exact same mortification I have when acknowledging any body hair I have (and, if we hadn’t covered this already, I’m a Jew, I have all of it).

Today I saw this article:

IT HAPPENED TO ME: I Got a Labiaplasty and I Feel Conflicted About It

(Editor note: Yes, I know that a labiaplasty is permanent and surgical and a lip wax is something thousands of women do twice a month but we’re talking about mortifying embarrassment here, not comparing hospital bills).

My sophomore year of high school I went to prom. Most of my friends were seniors that year so I went with a friend. I looked like Cleopatra in my dress and curling my hair took an eternity.

The morning of the dance my best friend and I went to get manicures at her local place, our manicurist was a very talkative Russian lady in her late 30s. We told her all about our dresses and who we were going with, everything fit to print.

When my nails were half dried she said “follow me” and walked me to the back of the salon and into a small room. I thought I was in trouble. I hate being in trouble.

“I’m not going to charge you for this but I’m going to wax your lip. I just don’t want you to look back at these pictures and have regrets.”

It was the first time that I realized that people could be distracted by things about me that I had decided weren’t worth caring about.

I didn’t know what to do, I was horribly embarrassed and let her do it. The pain sucked of course but what I’ve always hated about wax is that overly sensitive feeling afterwards, like a patch of my body is pure nerve ending, lacking that protective covering known as skin. I know some people love that feeling but I’ve always hated it. Like everyone knows what I’ve just done.

She promised the redness would go down by the evening and it probably did. It turned out she was wrong. I rarely ever look at pictures of that day and when I do there are other things to regret. I regret who I went with and what I cared about. I regret wearing shoes that hurt like hell and that I didn’t even like. I regret not getting the dress shortened. I regret not taking a picture with my mom.

I would not have regretted having the little NORMAL JEW LADY amount of hair on my lip that continues to NOT bother me in every picture I have taken since.

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