On Sunday morning, Jared and I were sitting in church when he pushed his lips up against my ear. When it comes to Sunday services, my husband and I are constant whisperers, so I wasn't expecting to hear anything new, urgent, or off the charts.
Usually when we whisper, it's a earful of excellent, complimentary phrases like, "Wow, she sings like an angel!" and "What a beautiful, well behaved child he is." And we're never being sarcastic. I'm not being sarcastic right now, either.
So like I was saying, Jared stuck his lips against my ear and softly said, "It's time to bleach your upper lip. Your mustache is getting dark."
I let that piece of news sink in for a second, finished the verse of How Great Thou Art, and during the brief piano interlude, I whispered back to Jared. "Girls don't have mustaches."
Another verse went by, and at the next piano interlude I heard my husband say, "My girl does."
And with that phrase, my denial phase had officially passed.
It's needless to say that I was unable to focus on anything for the rest of the meeting. Uplifting stories? Spiritual enlightenment? The miracle of grace? I missed it all. The only phases floating through my mind were things like electrolysis, and circus side show, and Sally Hansen beauty products. Charity and service would have to wait.
Now don't get me wrong here, I'm trying to be like Jesus as much as the next guy, but definitely not in the way of facial hair.
During the middle of the next hymn, I stepped out of the chapel and walked to the bathroom. I flipped on the light, stood two inches from the mirror and was instantly consumed by complete mortification--I actually had to stifle a scream. Jared was right, I was rockin' a stache.
Before I returned to the chapel, I practiced a few different faces in the bathroom mirror, hoping they'd pull the attention away from my facial hair.
I really wanted this:
I thought about this:
And I finally settled on this:
When I slipped back into the pew, I leaned to Jared and said, "We have to go home."
He leaned back and said, "We can't. You have to teach Sunday School--and you can't act like you're smelling your hand the whole time."
DAMMMMNNNNNNNNN. That was really bad news, but I managed. Sure I faced the blackboard for the entire hour, but trust me, I was inspirational.
After church was finally over, I dashed to the car, strapped on my seat belt, and resolutely announced that we were headed straight to the store. I know what you're thinking, and it's true--Mormons don't typically shop on Sundays. But people, Sabbath or not, my ox was stuck in the mire and I wasn't about to let him tarry.
We squealed out of the parking lot and drove straight to Rite Aid. The details of this part are a little bit fuzzy, but I'm pretty sure I swung open the door and rolled out of the car while it was still in motion. I ran toward the entrance and the store's automatic door was beginning to open when I had a horrible revelation--A WOMAN WITH FACIAL HAIR CANNOT BUY MUSTACHE BLEACH FROM A REAL LIFE PERSON.
So I got the hell out of there and made haste to the grocery store across the street--after all, they have a self check out. And now I'll give you one guess what they don't have. That's right, mustache bleach.Why me???!!!?!?!
I was limited to two choices--mustache wax or hair removal cream. After some heavy deliberation, I chose the cream. The wax just seemed so, I don't know, barbaric?Well let me clear the air here folks, the hair removal cream is no walk in the park on a fresh spring morning either--and I have the chemical burn to prove it.
I followed the directions to the finest detail, and to be fair, my mustache is completely gone--but guess what? So is my upper lip.