Nipple Hair and Blindness: Silent No More!

Photo by Mike Kline.

Nipple hair.  Nipple hair.  Nipple hair.  Ugh, just pairing those words together makes me cringe.  Even as I write this, I am wondering if I might have one sprouting at this very moment- hidden, unknown, until perhaps the bathroom light catches it at just the right angle or I unwittingly poke my husband's eye out with it's impressive, twisting length?  With horror, I realize that increasing sightings of unwanted body hair- poking from my chin, from the back of my thighs, and clustering around my belly button, are just a few of the myriad signs of ironic and tragic female aging.  "Aren't wrinkles enough!", I cry out to the heavens, "Surly, my skin deflating like an old party balloon is enough to remind me that I am on the back-side of life?" But alas, the Gods have a sick sense of humor and I am at the mercy of time. 

To make matters worse, whilst these hairs, which seem to grow to maturity over-night, stake out new and surprising territory upon my body, another nefarious process is at work.  I am losing my eyesight.  More specifically, I am losing the ability to see anything within an arm's length radius about me.  Thus, I am unable to spot these suckers before they grow to alarming lengths.  Once upon a time, I could see all of my bodily imperfections clearly in an ordinary mirror and remedy them forthwith.  This vision, so sadly taken for granted, allowed me never to suffer the embarrassment of say, an unseen white-head or clingy booger (let alone a blossoming beard).  I could, with expediency, pluck the offending intruder or skillfully cover up a blossoming blemish.  I possessed easy confidence that all of my sunscreen was rubbed in and my tinted moisturizer application was streak-less.

Now, as my eyebrow hair becomes prolific and my nether region expanse of hair spreads like the tributaries of a fertile river delta, I grow less able to spot these changes, to manage them, to remove them before having to accept that this is actually my body- my inevitable future.  

Aging requires more maintenance and more prevention strategies.  In my youth, body management was played like a zone defense. I loosely paid attention to the occurring events of my body- my weight, my skin, my body hair.   Over forty, I have had to change my game plan. In order to prevent my body from becoming like the overgrown Amazonian jungle, I have had to adopt a full-court-press.  I have spent more time plucking, shaving and waxing in the the last six months than I had in the first 30 years of my life!

I realize now that restaurants have not begun shrinking their menu font size for the purpose of saving money on printer ink (apparently the most expensive substance by weight in the entire universe).  This thinking was spurious and wishful.  Feeling rather grandmotherly, I have found myself moving reading material further and further away from my face in attempts to find just the right eye-to-menu distance and bring objects back into focus.  Staring into my bathroom mirror, my visage appears unchanged, a nasty trick played by my fogging vision, much like the age diminishing effect used in Elizabeth Taylor's notorious White Diamond commercials.  The opacity of these commercials progressively became so dense as to render her ageless and unrecognizable (see Saturday Night Live).

I have developed some effective compensation strategies such as increasing the font size on my ipad and purchasing my first (of many) pairs of "cheater" glasses.  Wearing glasses is a whole new world for me, as I have always had perfect vision.  I now have about 300 pairs of these glasses, lost endlessly, around the house in various shades and patterns. I admit when I wear them, I feel a little Hipster...that is until I look up from the book I am reading and tilt my head down to allow me to focus clearly on the world that exists beyond my immediate surroundings.  It dawned on me during one of these maneuvers that I had begun to perform the dreaded Bifocal Head Nod!  Good Lord if there was ever a sign that I am getting old, this was it! (On the upside, every time I wear them, my husband mutters something about "hot librarian" and gets a little randy.)

I have one friend who has her husband inspect for, and remove her nipple hair.  I am certain my own husband would balk at this task and it would most definitely strip him of all remaining sexual desire for my person.  I choose instead to suffer this one alone.  The cheaters help.  I can see more in the mirror and manage most things.  They do not however let me see the finer details- such as my reforesting areola or my stalwart chin whiskers.  Thus, I have also purchased a small round magnifying mirror, itself, a total shit show.

These miracles of self-esteem destruction, show EVERYTHING.   There is no hiding my "perfect imperfections" with this sucker.  I suppose it is better than being ambushed by bushiness, but one look at your face in these things and you will wish blindness upon the earth!  I can only stomach the full body inspection intermittently.  A quick once over.  Chin? Check.  Boobs? Check.  Belly button? Check.  It never ceases to amaze me how quickly a new hair resolutely replaces a recent pluck-ee.  I grow hair fast. Great. I've got that going for me....

I haven't yet started waxing my face (except my eyebrows which now require actual TRIMMING!).  I am not sure when I should start that or if it is even necessary.  A recent frost coated face-beard (affectionately called the "Frostache"), acquired while powder skiing, was a premonistic glimpse into my inevitable facial hair future, as the feathery snow clung to every hair on my face.  I'll leave the face waxing decision up to my wax-ologist.  A professional hair removal strategist and the most knowledgeable to guide me through personal denuding.

I stand by my theory that the aging process of a women is far nastier (and more critiqued) than that of the aging male.  If a man gets hairier...no biggie.  If he gets crows feet, he is distinguished.  If his chest gets man-booby, we of the fairer sex, judge him less harshly and cuddle him anyway.  We overlook his bushy eyebrows, ear-hair and pendulous balls.  Even his protruding belly becomes endearing.  Not so for the aging woman.  She must fight the good fight and remain nubile and hairless as long as her faculties remain about her.  

Unfair as it might be, it is our cultural lot.  I know at some point, perhaps in the not so distant future, I will surrender to mother nature and allow the wild flower garden of my body to shape itself as it will.  I imagine at this point in my life, my level of attraction to others will mean less to me.  I may even prefer sexual invisibility.  On the upside, in my golden years, the natural barrier formed by my prickly body hair may even serve as a useful defense against Viagra.