I first noticed it a few years back. It was totally random. For some reason my finger grazed across that exact spot under my chin, and there it was. A whisker.

I’m not talking about a hair, although technically a whisker is a type of hair. I’m talking about the bristly, pokey, fill-in-a-man’s-face with them kind of whisker. At least it wasn’t black.

This whisker concerned me. Why did I have a whisker? What else didn’t I know? Were there others I was unaware of?

I rarely wear cosmetics, and I’m a pretty no-fuss kind of girl, so I really don’t check myself out very carefully. What else was going on that I didn’t know about?

A close inspection followed, and I was satisfied that the whisker was a renegade. Why this lone wolf chose to set up shop on my chin I may never know, but now that I was aware of it, I was determined to take it down.

Shaving was out the the question. I barely have the talent to shave my legs and armpits, no way I’m going to mess up this pretty face of mine.

I considered wax, but I wanted to save myself the cost and the embarrassment.

In the end, I chose tweezers. With a steady hand and a lot of determination, I plucked that whisker right out. It was a glorious moment. I immediately felt more attractive and worthy of love. I was relieved that the ugly thing was gone.

Here’s the thing, though, whiskers grow back. That whisker, nasty little trick of nature that it is, has to be plucked out regularly. Sometimes I find it right away, and other times it seems to blend in. Sometimes I forget about it, until I accidentally brush my hand across my chin, then I get startled all over again.

I suppose this is just another one of those joys of getting older. At least it beats the alternative.