The hair, it seems, is everywhere—in the teeth of my mouth from the cats on the bed, in the prongs of my brush from the post-showering detanglement. In college, we could not believe there would come a day when we would not shave above our knees, like our older sisters and aunts who seemed to wordlessly accept the plurality of hair emerging from unlikely places. As we age, and the hair wars rage, we must apparently develop a strategy to manage the fat blades of hair that grow on our toes; the chest hair no one speaks of that comes for a stay; the stiff chin hairs that sprout, both spike-like and curling; the nose hair that comes out to explore; and the mustache that slowly erupts and evolves ever darker. I’ll take the lines and the wrinkles. And the sunspots. And the sags. But for the love of god, reduce this hair on my body and put it back it all back on my head.
Sarah Bigham writes in Maryland where she lives with her kind chemist wife, three independent cats, an unwieldy herb garden, and several chronic pain conditions. Her work has garnered a Pushcart nomination and appears in a variety of great places for readers, writers, and listeners. Find her at sgbigham.com.