By Heather Webber/Heather Blake
Okay, so there I was the other day, washing my hands in the bathroom sink when I spotted...it.
Way out. It was about an inch long.
I had a bit of girly-girl panic as I leaned in to get a closer look at this mutant hair and held my breath as I reached for it, ready to yank it out (that sucker had to GO).
Then, as I grabbed it, I realized it wasn’t actually attached to my cheek—it had fallen there. It was a bristle from my kabuki foundation brush.
Whew! Crisis averted. For now. But I know there are mutant hairs on my horizon, and trust me, they will be plucked, exfoliated, Naired...eradicated.
Why does getting older have to be so painful...and filled with panic? Maybe I need to be more Zen. I’ll work on it. For now, pass the tweezers, will ya?