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I hair you, but I don’t understand!

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I have a full arsenal of depilatory creams, waxes and devices. If I do not maintain regular habits of ripping the hair out of my face I will look like this:

I kid, I kid. Seriously, I’m being too hard on myself. Realistically though, I would look a lot like this:

The similarities are shocking.

So it should have come as no surprise that when I was in the locker room the other day, two women speaking spanish began eyeing me suspiciously.

“Ju understand what we say?” She asked in an accusatory tone.

“ummm, naw..” I said in my southern drawl.

“Jus shore?” Skeptically.

“I’m sure, I speak not a word of spanish.”

Finally satisfied that I was not eavesdropping on their conversation, she clapped me on the back and said that I should at least be able to count to ten and order a taco or burrito. I conceded her point and chuckled nervously.

She pointed at my face and said I could be Mexican. That’s cool. This is awkward.

It’s good to know I’ve got a place to go should I ever need to change my identity. Though this is more like what my great-grandmother looked like, You can call me Frieda. Ole!


About Monica

Christ following, husband loving, children hugging foster and adoptive mama.

2 responses »

  1. I too, am a hirsute sister! Hard to believe, I know with my light coloring. But boy, without Nair, I’m scary. Loved this blog post

  2. Me too! I have tweezers in my glove compartment at all times to get the rogue hairs growing out of all sorts of evil places. They especially love my chin, alas.


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