The Pluck

Sometimes I catch myself brushing my fingertips along where it grows. I’m anxious of course; always am. Anxious that it will come back, while also anxious that it never will. My feelings are torn between love and loss. But, to my surprise and relief, that one hair on my chin continues to return every few weeks. 

It’s fairly small and barely noticeable. A light blonde whisper that lives on my face for only a few days a month. I even have a designated pair of tweezers I use just for the occasion. They’re pink and smaller than my thumb; travel size. A dainty little hair deserves a dainty pair of tweezers so I can be more precise. 

I’ve had this little hair for years, though recently I’ve been much more aware of her. 

I decided to ask a couple of my girlfriends if they have similar strands living in exile on their body. Jolyn, Alexa and I went out for “yappy hour” at a local pub with dim lighting, well-tequila and a greasy sampler platter; the perfect setting for this kind of conversation. 

“I have one but it’s not on my chin,” Alexa said. 

Jolyn took a big swig from her martini glass and under her breath muttered, “please don’t say your crotch, please don’t say your crotch…” 

“Relax, it’s not my crotch,” she protested. 

Jolyn and I sat on our bar stools gripping our drinks and feeling the cold chill of the condensation running down my hands. We starred at Alexa. Seconds went by that felt like hours. 

“Dude, where’s the strand!” Jolyn demanded. 

“South of my belly button and north of my thighs.” 

I giggled lightly and shook my head, partially disgusted. “Alright, that’s enough explanation for me—” 

“You know, I think I have a picture—” 

“NO!” Jolyn and I exclaimed in unison.

“Oh my god, you prudes. Mike didn’t make a big deal and he’s the one who took the photo.” 

            There was a “For Rent” sign hanging outside my mouth and flies were getting eager to move in. Jolyn placed her hand under my chin and slowly shut the front door. 

Finally, I muttered, “Why? Just, like, why? Why on earth would—” 

“I wanted to see it.” Alexa shrugged. 

“You mean you asked him to document it?” Jolyn’s face looked like it painted by Edvard Munch, (Artist of The Scream).

I went home that night and inspected my skin. Sat at my vanity and got lost in its mirror, the same one my mother once used to daydream in when she was my age. I starred at my chin, at the very spot where that one hair grows and felt myself actually missing it. Missing that little friend with whom I’d fidget with during class. Now, with her absence, I rub the smooth surface and become immediately distracted, the way one would think I’d be distracted if she were still there. But she wasn’t. She’d been plucked just the night before out of frustration, forgetting that I’d, for some reason, miss her later. I should probably go get my eyebrows done, I think to myself. 

The next morning, I wake up the same way I always do; I have an alarm set for eight a.m. but will be woken up by my cat much earlier once he sits on my neck and starts yelling.

I roll out of bed and head to the bathroom. My eyes barley open and they cringe from the fluorescent beam that seeps through the light-fixture above. I huddle my legs to the floor heater as the morning chill awakes the goose bumps on my knees and down to my ankles. My morning eye bags hang low, and my shoulders curve in, savoring any little ounce of heat left over from my warm covers that still call my name from my bedroom. I wash my face, brush my teeth, maybe even put some makeup on. Then, I check to see if the little hair has started its return. 

This feeling of loss resurfaces every so often and its main source of grief stems from that little monster that sprouts from the depths of my pores. I think about other things in life, things I’ve lost. Family members, friends, memories that I’ve now since forgotten. And then I think of you. The one that left before I was ready, before I had a chance to process it. A man I thought I could count on forever, who I shared a bedroom wall with, a soul bearing wall. I think if you’ll ever come back. But you won’t. 

But at least I still have that hair on my chin, and I can always count on her consistency.