Whiskas

Saturday Afternoon

"Can you take a look and see if this hair is gone?" my mother says tilting her head to the side and rubbing the lower part of her chin.

"Why? Got a little whisker there or what?" I say, immediately feeling my heartbeat skip from my assinine comment.

"Forget it! Just you wait, missy!" she shoots back agitated.

"Why?" I say.

"Oh, you'll get them, you will. Grandma had them and I thought, gross. But guess what? I got one and you will, too!" she says.

"Do you want me to see if it's gone?" I say, all frightened now by the curse of the witch whisker, "I mean, I'll pluck it out if you want." (secretly cringing)attempting to avoid inevitability.

"Just forget it. I think I got it" she says.

I'm already cursed with that lovely downey Nordic white peachfuzz face. Now whiskers? As far as I was concerned I thought that was just a catfood.

whiskas, whiskers, aging