Unwanted facial hair. Yep, hubby Dale and I have reached that age. His ears spawn renegade hair. Nose tendrils, if left untrimmed, poke out his nostrils. And me? I've got chin hairs that I swear are as thick as pipe cleaners. There are advantages to getting older. This hair thing is soooooooo not one of them. I mean, get this. For my birthday Dale gave me state-of-the-art tweezers and I was as thrilled as if the gift had come from Tiffany's. Well, okay, not quite as thrilled but there was a time when such a gift would have been grounds for divorce. No more.



Dale and I swore a sacred oath that we will not allow the other to have unwanted facial hair. So imagine my shock and annoyance when, on the way to a party, he said, “There's something I've been meaning to mention for two weeks,” and that something turned out to be a hair that was growing under my chin where I could not see it in the mirror, and it was now quite long.

“Two weeks!” I exclaimed. “Why didn't you tell me?” He pointed out that he was telling me. Great. On the way to a party and me without my tweezers. As I frantically searched in the visor mirror for that damned hair, I swore I'd get even. I, who had never once failed to immediately point out an in-the-wrong-place hair on his handsome head, had been betrayed. I would arrive at the party a self-conscious wreck with a big ol' hair hanging off my chin, a nasty red spot from trying to pluck it with my fingernails, or, God forbid, both. Boy oh boy, was my hide chapped.

I dinged him a zillion points, or what in our house are called Frequent Foreplay Miles, and plotted my revenge.

Fast forward a week. We were on the patio and Dale's ears were back-lit in the afternoon sun—the perfect light in which to spot unwanted hair sprouting from those adorable earlobes of his that, when hairless, I love to nibble. Have I mentioned how cute he is? There they were—two newbies on his left lobe right at the spot he misses when he checks in the bathroom mirror. I was jubilant. As he sipped his vodka tonic, oblivious to my machinations, I willed those hairs to grow long and strong until I triumphantly announced their presence. Two weeks, ha! I'd wait three weeks, maybe four.

Then I got to thinking. What if he decides to get even, then I have to get even again, and then again. Oh, dear. We could end up pretty darned hairy and that would be awful. And what if he had wanted to get even when I forgot to tell him an appointment had been canceled and he waited an hour before figuring it out, or when I turned his socks pink by washing them with a red tee-shirt, or when I put too much salt on his popcorn, or .. .

As my tit-for-tat bubble slowly deflated, I said with a heavy sigh, “Honey, I'll go get the tweezers.”