Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Guest Blogger: Cara!

Today we finally have a guest blog by my common-law best friend, Cara!

It's about time, considering I asked her to write one in January (ahem). She's been over sharing with me for the last 15 years, and now she's over sharing on my blog. I feel like we've reached and broken a new boundary in our friendship. *tear*

5 o'clock Shadow & You: One Girl's Tale of Triumph

So, this text conversation happened today -

Me: If I fell into a coma, would you come live near me with the
sole purpose of plucking my eyebrows while I'm incapacitated?

Audrey: Hmm... How much would your estate pay me?

Me: All the Cheetos you can eat. And we'll have cable internet
for you to use. But bring your own computer. I don't want you finding
my porn stash.

Audrey: Yeah... I need benefits and 3 weeks paid vacation.

Before I get into what I want to talk about here, I'd like to point
out that never did my BFF ask me what the crap I was talking about or
why I was asking such a daunting task.  She did immediately ask
for some sort of compensation, but being the great friend she is, she
didn't question my motives.  She's a good friend. Albeit a greedy
friend, but a good one too. (Editor's Note: You'd better be careful who you slander, lest 
you end up in a coma with wonky eyebrows)

Anyway, lately I've been contemplating the irritation that is body
hair.  Body hair is gross.  Every day, I dread looking in
the mirror to discover where a new rogue whisker may have emerged.

 The main cause of my problem is that I have really dark brown hair.
 Like, almost black.  It's the same color as my moms, but
she'll flip her lid if you tell her it's black. "NO! IT'S DARK BROWN,
NOT BLACK!" I'm not sure when my mom became a hair color bigot, but
that's a conversation for another day.  But I digress.  The
fact of the matter is, my hair is dark, so any time there's a new
sprout that pops up to say "hello", it's immediately noticeable to me,
and probably to everyone within a 2-mile radius.  Or at least,
that's what I imagine. 
(Editor's Note: birds of a feather.)

My first taste of body hair embarrassment
was when I was 8 years old. My babysitter, a 16-year-old blond who
probably didn't have a speck of unwanted foliage anywhere (or at least
not dark enough to see), got a laugh from her friends at my expense when
she pointed out how hairy my legs were.  Dude! I was 8 friggin years old!
What do I know?! I remember sneaking a razor from my mom that night and
cutting the crap out of myself before finally asking her to help me
learn how to do it properly.

It wasn't until a few years later, when I thought it was a good idea
to scratch an itch on my knee with a disposable Bic, that I fully
understood the power that tiny pink razor held. This thing could kill
me if I let it.

Yeah, pretty much just like that.

I was around 16 years old when I became aware of how hairy my arms
were.  Think Robin Williams arms on a young girl's body.

Yes, Robin. It is sad.

So I started shaving my arms.  I still do it to this day.
 I've never admitted to it in public, so feel privileged. And
then forget I ever told you.  Dammit, I need one of those Men In
Black mind eraser thingies.

Then I was 19 or so when I discovered the benefits of
shaved genitalia.  I won't go into too much detail about
this, but just know that I typed and deleted 4 different sentences
involving itchiness and ingrown hairs. Blegghhhh.

Here I sit, 27 years old, married, with a young son, and I still
remove the hair from basically my Super Mario Mustache all the way
down.  That the hell?  Why am I still so concerned with
feeling like a newborn baby?  It's so weird.  Part of me
wishes I could let go of the social stigma of hairy armpits or sandals
with monkey toes.  But I just can't.

Thus, it will be part of my living will that my best friend from high
school move halfway across the country to tend to my eyebrow plucking
needs, lest a sexy doctor think I'm some sort of a cave woman.

Dr. Big-Bulge, at your service.

Find a lot of cute pictures of my kid, and my thoughts on life at

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