03.28.01
Courtesy of my Italian heritage, I am a fairly hirsute woman. Thank the dieties that I was born a blonde, for were I a brunette, women would scream and children would run in fear of the wolf-girl as I walked down the street.
With careful management -- shaving, tweezing, various and sundry other epilatory methods, I keep my lupine nature at bay. However, sometimes the hair works against me.
One time, I was snipping off a funny hair from my chin when I slipped and snipped open a nice piece of skin. That earned me a trip to the emergency room and three stitches. I told everyone that asked about the stitches that I was 'running with scissors' and that the adults were right all along.
Earlier this week, I was attempting to keep my fuzzy upper lip at bay, and inadvertently shaved the top off of my beauty mark. It's not pretty, being a gross scab and all.
And then there's the whole waxing debaucle whenever the fuzzy contents of my britches try to make a run for it.
When I was a kid, my relatives called me a fuzzy little peach. If only they could see me now.
