Ruby,

Why a whisker? Why my chin? Why now?

Middle-Aged in Milwaukee

Dear Ma’m

First, let me say I’m so sorry about your whisker. As for explaining it, I could give you a lot of technical anatomical jargon, but why don’t we just use a nice metaphor?

Imagine that there’s a teeny little Zen fountain inside you that burbles ever so slowly and gently. It’s fed by two fast-running hormonal streams. One stream is getting more and more blocked by some idiot sporadically dumping piles of dead eggs. That’s the estrogen river, sometimes flowing and sometimes slowing to a trickle. There’s nothing blocking the other stream, which is merrily pumping out a gurgling flow of testosterone, just like it always has.

This imbalance interferes with the serene and regular operation of your Zen fountain, and may make you feel suddenly toasty or rageful or baldish or horny or awake for no apparent reason. Yay!  It’s also the trigger for the odd chin whisker that appears, ironically, when you can probably no longer see it without glasses.

What’s good about this situation? It means you’re not dead. It also means you’re heading for the no-pregnancy zone, which could be a good thing. And also, you know, a little extra testosterone can come in handy — it sometimes adds just the right touch of feistiness to help you make an important life change, resolve a difficult relationship, or kill someone in “self-defense. ”

Ma’m, you’re entering a very special time. Women embarking on this special time absolutely require a good magnifying light-up mirror like one of these beauties. (I saw a bunch more on Ebay.)

And, who know? Someone might try to dissuade you from spending money on something as frivolous as a magnifying light up mirror, and you can take this opportunity to practice some of that feistiness I was talking about. Feisty in his face. Feisty on his ass. Feisty-I’ll-give-you-this-damn-light-up-mirror-and-show-you-your-own-freaking-prostate-at-15x-feisty. That kind of feisty. Try not to actually bite anyone; those things always get infected.

Or, you could take another path. You could opt for the slow reveal, laying low as you flex and stretch and explore your new powers. Your new . . . Cougar powers. Or, okay, you could cry and take another bath and blow through yet another bottle of Zinfandel. There’s really no telling. Good luck, Ma’m, happy tweezing, and godspeed.

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