The 'Stache

I get it. I'm in my forties. I have dark brown hair. It was bound to happen. But when it started looking like my fourteen-year-old son's, it was time to do something about it. It being – da da da dum – The Momstache.

I've been checking out the options. There are a lot of them – some expensive, some not so much. At first I just plucked out the little dark rebels as they appeared. But I knew that wasn't going to be the answer forever.

So I'm at Hair Nite – no, it's not some weird waxing party, it's where me and my sisters and friends get together to have our (head) hair cut and colored, and we eat a lot and drink a lot and eventually say things like, “You should totally go lighter!” – and I decide to ask around. My younger sister tells me not to bother with waxing a 'stache; that it'll just grow back darker and thicker. She says bleaching is cheap and quick.

I'm all over cheap and quick, so I buy the box. But it sits on the shelf in the bathroom for a while. I mean, there's all these warnings about burning sensations and rashes and stuff. And it's not like I've got a hedge growing. In fact, I'm not sure anyone even notices the shadow except me – and that's only when I'm peering at it in the mirror.

But after a while, I get tired of tweezing (and kidding myself that no one who's ever stood close to me hasn't glanced at my upper lip – because I know I've done it to other women) and decide to give it a shot.

It's not that bad. There's only a little burning tingle in the few minutes that I have the cream on my face. And when I wash it off, there's no rash and no shadow! Yay!

So, of course, then I have to take off my glasses and lean over the sink to get a good look. And as I'm inches from the mirror, with my lip stretched down over my teeth, all I can see is a bunch of bright yellow hairs, and I think, Great. Now I look like The Lorax.

As soon as I get some cash, I'm ordering a no!no!