Do you remember this one? It was awesome. It wasn’t March, but it was the sweetness, right then. Heather J. really really hated it. So did Bishop. I loved it. There’s nothing hotter on a dude than mutton chops and a haircut that’s about 4 months past its prime. Did not make him look like psycho serial killer at all. But I did feel safe. Try not to fall in love with him, ladies. But feel free to come back to admire his looks.
So it’s March again. The glorious time of the year where all the hipsters have an excuse to force out their fifteen facial hairs into something completely ironic. I love mustache March. But here’s something I WISH was secret about me: I could have a real bitchin’ mustache, too. But I’ll get back to that. First, I’d like to introduce you to my brother Jamey:
That mustache is real. The chick isn’t his rocking fiance. She’s way hotter and nicer and of good report and praiseworthy. I just liked the stache.
Anyways. Back to me. I’m the hairiest girl you’ve ever seen in your life. I come from a long line of hairy women. When my grandmother was on her deathbed I really had to restrain myself from pulling out some tweezers and yanking out the hair on her chinney chin chin. My mom has made us PROMISE that we’ll take care of her facial hair after she gets to senile to. Which really could be any day (ha ha muttherrrr) . I’m pretty sure she wrote it into her living will. No extreme measures to save life, no facial hair. That’s what I’m putting in mine, too. Also, in the even of dismemberment, I’d really like a peg. Peg leg. Peg arm. It doesn’t matter.
I digress. I digest. That part has been going really good lately. Lots of leafy greens. Oh, and by the way, I’m halfway to my diet goal! Cheers, applause, confetti. It’s funny to be so happy to be *this* “skinny” because a few years ago, this was what I weighed right after having Casey. But I’ve come to use food as therapy, so it’s served it’s purpose. The only problem now with dieting is that I actually have to deal with crap instead of burying it under a plate (by ‘plate’ I mean ‘crate’) of nachos.
Obviously the ADD medicine has worn off. Back to the hair. I’m HAIRY! So bad that before I got married, my MIL took me to get my mustache lazered off. I only went the one time, so it didn’t help. I also didn’t “get” the point. I wish I could say I was Greek. Or that I was a dude. Because then it’d totally be okay for my body to be like this. Hairy. Pimply. Mushy. My face hates Washington. It always has. But it’s gotten way worse. It’s so super sensitive now that I can no longer get it waxed. I break out in a nasty, scaley rash every single time. So last week I decided to try the super sensitive kind of nair for your face. (I put it on the car on the way home from Silverdale because I’m a multitasker). Yah, broke out all over my upper lip and my chin. Which is so sad to me. I shouldn’t be able to grow a goatee. So now I’ve taken to picking the hairs out one by one with tweezers. It makes me hostile. Like threat level orange hostile. And I’m not good at it nor do I have the attention span to spend the right amount of time doing it.
I’ve always shaved everything else. My arms, legs, toes etc. Lance didn’t believe it was as bad as it was until two years ago when I decided to grow out the hair on just one of my big toes. We called it “Hairtoe” because we’re super creative. It was DISGUSTING. I wish I had taken a picture. But no one thinks about that sort of thing when you’re hot in the moment.
I bet you thought I was going somewhere with this, right? Wrong. You don’t know me at all.
Anyways, I just think it’s a little misogynistic to only include dudes in Mustache March. I could totally be a contender.