You’ve been there…having a chat…enjoying the conversation when something catches your attention and won’t let it go. You don’t want to keep looking but you can’t help it. There, in the midst of a clean-shaven face, animated eyes, and the lively conversation…stands the dancing black hair perched at the end of the nose. Not right at the tip. Not on the bridge, but in that in-between no man’s land, safely ensconced in the facial features.
Over the years I’ve tried to grab the stubborn black hair when the owner was unaware, but to no avail. My humanitarian efforts are flicked away as annoyance. And so, that little black hair, safe in his lodging has mocked me to the point where he is slightly grey at the end. Now he is an aged mid-black hair as lively and distracting as ever under the protection of an unconcerned master.
It isn’t right when one is all set for the fight and the enemy keeps alluding even the most stealthy attacks of tweezer or pincered nails.
And so, I lament with a “Sad Song” for they “say so much” and my opponent openly mocks me with his “I’m still standing” after all these years. Again, I lick the wounds of defeat, planning to fly the flag of truce, when the balled up, woodsy, bush-like inner nose hair spring to the corus “yah, yah, yah”.
“No,” I say, hands cupped over my face. “No.”
It’s true, as I peek through the parting of my fingers, there in the clipped rug of the ear, some curling strings echo the bushy inner nose hair and ignore my flag of truce, flaunting their all out victory and point to my chin. My fingers find the place and “NOOOO” But it’s just a hoarse whisper because a wiry black hair of my own has sprouted to some length and super power strength to adhere to my jawline, just west of my chin.
A new battle wages and instead of “Singing the Blues”, with tweezers and 10x mirror in hand, I take up the battle cry, “The Bitch is Back”.