Hush now, whisker who dares…

Women spend hours plucking chin hairs…

There, I’ve said it.

Not my chin… yet (by featherlite via flickr)

Much is said of the usual signs of ageing – the wrinkles, the fading memory and the inconsiderately small type size on anything these days.

Everyone knows how gravity gets you down, while comfort and quiet become really rather important.

No one pretends that the brunette is still natural or they like the TV and radio up loud.

But there is one little thing that no one is talking about. There are adverts about which sanitary protection is best, candid confession of increased flatulence, and discussion groups about sex for septuagenarians, but not a single word on the subject of the chin hairs.

Like the big bad wolf, almost every woman as she peers down the steep slope of over the hill will start to get hairs on her chinny-chin-chin. 

At first there will be the horrific and shameful discovery of one. Perhaps you’ll feel its sharp end with your fingers. Before you can rush to a mirror you’ll believe it’s enormous. And obvious.

Then you start to check that spot hourly and, sure enough, the little blighter is back. But this time its brought a couple of its chums.

Tweezers suddenly become crucial – as does a well-lit, magnifying mirror. Previously there would be days, weeks even, when ignorance was better than close scrutiny, but not any longer.

I could live with a spot or a crease I didn’t know about but an errant whisker is too horrific to consider.

Then there are the ‘where the hell did that come from and how long has it been there?’ moments. When that happens, life is not worth living until a full plucking has been achieved.

I’ve no idea why this the last taboo. Is channelling your aged and whiskery home economics teacher really the worst thing that is happening to you?

Therefore, for the sake of womankind I’m leading the way. Thrust forward your bristly chins and follow me. We’re coming out…

And because there’s an opportunity here, I’d like the first in the range of bejewelled hybrid tweezer-pendants to be called The Ellen

Perhaps legislation must follow – public lavatories must soon contain a magnifying mirror you can get close enough to, and spare tweezers for hire.