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My lady mustache

One morning last December, I called into work and said I “needed to work from home” because I thought I was “coming down with something.” This was not exactly true. The real problem was that I had woken up with a huge red welt spreading across the middle of my face and simply could not muster up the emotional resources needed to appear with it in public. I didn’t want anyone thinking anything was wrong with me, but I also didn’t want anyone knowing the ridiculous truth: The night before, I had fully scorched myself while attempting to chemically remove the mustache that has been trying to take up permanent residence on my upper lip since I hit puberty.

This is all my mother’s fault. She comes from a long line of dark, wiry-haired people and suffers from the same furry burden — although, now that I think about it, my father could also be to blame. He’s had some form of facial hair since the early 70s; he’s been married to my mom for more than three decades now, and there are whole swaths of his face she’s never seen. Maybe after a while that shit just morphs your DNA. Maybe I was doomed from the start. Who knows what kind of sumptuous beards the world could’ve been blessed with had my parents produced a son. But they didn’t. And so here here I am, a lady with a mustache.

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