The honey-dipped rays of the sun flickered against my window pane. I watched its light beam drift from a stack of books, to the armrest of my love-seat where my head hung heavy. It was bright, blinding and warming my face at the same time. Suddenly the phone rang. As I looked at the screen to view the caller, there she was in my reflection–Ms. Mustache! The sun picked up all the highlights of her soft thin hairs that danced lightly above my upper lip. I shuttered at its sight.
Ms. Mustache’s been in my life for many moons; often forgotten but never forgiven for her occupancy.
For some time now, I’ve been wearing a considerable amount of lipstick–it’s fun. Each time I pull out a tube to trace the shape of my lips, I feel like I’m taking part of a sophisticated female tradition. Trouble is, it only makes her more noticable, (Ms. Mustache). It was my first visit with an esthetician. She was a persuasive Brazilian woman who waxed her entire face. After much dialogue, I gave in and embarked on my first and only lip-waxing experience.
It painfully taught me that a bumpy, pimply reaction on my upper lip was much less attractive than the latter, Ms. Mustache. I miss her terribly. I never thought I would say this, but I can’t wait for her to come back. I love Ms. Mustache.