The Scourge that is Vanity.

I'd like to think that I am stepping gracefully and elegantly into my senior years, but I've come to realise that that probably means different things to different people.  From my perspective, it doesn't mean embracing matronly conservative pant suits, I won't be wearing polyester nylon anytime soon, and birkenstocks are far into my future.  On the other hand, baby doll sandals and spaghetti straps have gone the way of the dodo.  After all, there is reality to face... or is it gravity?  Those upper arms flap just a little bit more, and going bra-free would just scare the neighbours.  Still, I like colour - vibrant colours for some of my shirts, a great pair of red stilettos, rainbow scarves, hi-lites and colour to mask the gray, coral and aqua jackets.  Can't say that I have ever mastered 'chic', but I try to keep up.
A conversation that hardly ever comes up in genteel or regular conversations, however, is the topic of extraneous hair.  No-one tells us at 21 that at 51 or 61, the invisible down fleetingly seen in occasional sunlight when you're young, turns into black, wiry tensile cable visible from three yards (to all those under 40, with their pristine vision).  We stand, bespectacled and squinting, in front of mirrors that magnify, painstakingly plucking the offending wire from our chins and upper lips.  As hormones dwindle, we become frequent flyers at the local beauty parlor, where we willingly and desparately undergo the torturous delights of facial waxing, leg waxing and that other waxing in the nether regions - although most of us oldies usually forego that pleasure unless we are off on the annual vacation, where we can anonymously and inconspicuously don the ubiquitous full piece bathing suit, which hopefully rides low enough so that no eye popping may occur from the younger set. 

And woe betide that you should have daughters - at least they're honest and actually tell you that you have black hairs sprouting and curling from your chin.  Three growing close together allows you to contemplate braiding as a statement, but convention usually dictates otherwise.  Not to speak of the humiliation as she tells you to go get the tweezers and then proceeds to pull away, all the while lecturing about "you shouldn't have let it go this far!  But what is one to do? Even with glasses the little beggers are hard to see.

The aha moment swept me up with excitement - off to the electrolysis lady - who is sure to wave her magic wand and rid me of my problem forever.    Oh, the shock and terror when I finally lay down for my 30 minutes of problem solved.  No fairy godmother waving her magic wand for me! She might as well have been dressed in leathers and carried a whip - does anyone know the pain of having a needle jabbed through seven layers of epidermis, down the hair follicle to the root, and at the end of which experience the hair-raising jolt as electricity buzzes the poor hair in such a manner so that it jumps right out of its skin.  The worst part - some of those little hairs have no intention of budging, so dominatrix lady zaps you a few more times for good measure.  Now that is one hair follicle - imagine another hundred of the little soldiers! 

Amazingly, I willingly submitted myself to this procedure and even paid for the privilege.  But it's kind of like the childbirth phenomenon - you forget about the pain once it's over.  I have to say that the end result was worth the effort and I will take myself off to the 'chamber' a couple more times to be finally rid of the problem.

The joys of growing old gracefully!