I grew up with the Three Little Pigs. Who didn’t?
One night the big bad wolf, who dearly loved to eat fat little piggies, came along and saw the first little pig in his house of straw. He said “Let me in, Let me in, little pig or I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house in!”
“Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin”, said the little pig.
But of course the wolf did blow the house in and ate the first little pig.
I’ve had a hair on my chin for the past couple years. One single black obnoxious hair. It grows, I pluck. It grown, pluck again. About once a month I start to feel a little pin-point of a hair. It’s annoying and pretty prickly. Then it eventually gets a little longer so I can actually almost get a hold of it with my thumbnail and pointer fingernail. In another few days I’ll try again. I work at it for about a week. And then it’s finally long enough to get the pliers.
Pliers? Yah, I don’t have any tweezers. I buy them, it seems, quite often, but they get lost. So pliers are my tool of choice for wild chin hairs.
Long story short, I had two pair of pliers in the bathroom and a hammer was still there from another unrelated project from the other day. They were all on the sink and there I was trying with all my might to get out the little chin whisker. Hubby walked past the bathroom and said, with all the seriousness of the straight guy in a two-man comedy act, “Face lift?”
He is not a funny guy. But that made me laugh out loud.