Becoming sloth

5:30 am and instead of being at the gym or outside on a morning run, I am on my ass in my living room typing this drivel and deciding between sweatpants or leggings for today’s wardrobe. If I were allowed to show up to work wearing burlap or one of the sets of unattractive pajamas I own; trust that I would. At 5:19 this morning I threw in the towel; I gave up – game over.

As with any other morning, I was sitting on the toilet plucking my eyebrows; it’s oddly cathartic for me, but what is not cathartic is finding a rogue chin hair. I might be lying a little bit if I were to tell you that I hadn’t seen this little fucker before, but today he seemed darker and more menacing. If this little whisker had a face I’m sure he would be smirking at me. There is no way that it could be female - in my opinion. Female facial hair would be sympathetic and sorry for its premature arrival and this asshole was for sure throwing shade; I could feel it!

I’d been in denial in the past - thinking perhaps it was a misplaced eyebrow, or that it belonged to someone else and was simply seeking shelter on my face and who am I to turn away a stray? Sure little buddy, I will give you refuge until you are strong enough to make it out there on your own or until you become noticeable on my topography, then you’ll have to bounce. I have issues enough being mistaken for a boy, you becoming a fixture on my face will only reinforce this and I can’t have that. With a ‘barely there’ B cup, short hair, and a 9^th grade vocabulary; your residency delivers a crushing blow to my already teetering femininity.

I took his life with the aid of Mr. Tweezerman. With steady hands I went for the kill shot and ripped that little asshole out by the root nice and slow. It was so gratifying in fact that when I was done; I looked down at my handiwork and in a manner of speaking, mocked the hair. That’s right; I talked shit to a hair that I pulled from my chin. I’ve done some stupid shit, but I think this is right up there in the rankings. I talked down to that little chin hair: “What now? What you got now, tough guy? Right. Nuthin. What? Go ahead, say something…” *make sure to insert overconfidence in tone while reading that* I have fallen hopeless to and helpless. I talk shit to facial hair. I was almost disappointed when it didn’t rise to the occasion and I wasn’t able to actually pick a fight. So you see; this is why I give up. I’ve lost the battle with both my body and my mind.

I’ve never had an issue sharing even the most embarrassing of encounters with you guys and this certainly qualifies. I’ve even decided to post the photo of my little buddy [see below] post extraction. I’m a little lonely now if I’m being honest. Hindsight being 20/20, I’m wondering if I made a mistake. What if we could have been best buddies? I could have let him grow and perhaps invited a few more of his cousins and together we could have done something charitable; like grown locks of love. I think I just threw up a little bit. “Here Tabitha, we know you lost your own hair, but here is a nice wig made entirely of chin hair donated by Tina. She says: ‘Fuck Cancer’ and ‘Not by the hair on my chiny-chin-chin’ and that she knows she’s going to Hell, but she hopes you enjoy your new fro.”

Straight. To. Hell.

Does Satan have razors or does the hair just singe from the heat, and if that’s the case, do we all smell like burnt dog hair? I need to know these kinds of things so I can pack accordingly.

Thanks, 

Sloth