MENOPAUSAL MUTANT NINJA WHISKER

It's back.

It's black.

And it's as coarse and stiff as a wild boar's hair.

Yes, my monthly menopausal mutant ninja chin whisker has popped out for yet another surprise visit this morning.

I just discovered it, though it must have been lurking for a while cuz the swarthy bristle is at least an inch long. How the heck could I have missed it?

Amazingly stealth stubble.  An onyx oddity, I dare say, amid all the alabaster peach fuzz that also adorns  my maturing mug these days.

True, I could immediately tweeze the stalwart strand.  But where's the challenge in that?

I prefer to thumb the thick, bothersome blade a bit instead. Feel it. Contemplate the annoyance.

Then I grasp the prickly protrusion between my fingernails and yank it out by its perpetual root embedded deep within my doubling chinny chin chin.

Oh, sweet sting of victory!

I usually give the dark, vexing quill a triumphant once-over before flicking it into the trash where it belongs.

But like a horror movie monster stabbed with knitting needles who appears to die yet keeps coming back to haunt and torture, so, too, will my menopausal mutant ninja whisker rejuvenate and return...more than likely dragging along its equally perturbing pals, the errant ear and nose hairs.

Also familiar with their erratic cousins, those curly feelers that occasionally jut from my eyebrows.

Oh, well. Who gives a pluck?

It's Saturday! No pouting over menopausal "pleasantries" allowed!