I have no hair on my legs. None. Menopause had rendered me down to 3 on my right leg only and zero on the left and now those 3 have disappeared, too. I’m thinking I must have dripped some of my home-made weed killer onto my pants leg the other day. Or, perhaps my eyesight is going. Or, aliens made off with me in the night, plucked out those 3 remaining hairs for research, looked at each other and said, “Nah, she’s a geezer – she’ll never even notice,” then carted me back home and into my bed before dawn when I awoke. At any rate, that’s the status for today.
Spooky, isn’t it? The thought that you could be double-crossed by your very own body 3 & 4 times in one lifetime is really kind of creepy, don’t you think? I mean, just when I finally get used to it being a particular way – WHAM! – there’s something new that’s arrived or disappeared and, suddenly, I have to spend twice as long to look half as good as I ever did, and even half of that time is spent plucking or tweeking somehow, or clipping or tucking in or cinching up or buffing or smearing with some sort of cream or ointment.
So, I hope you’re having a hey-day, you creepy, weird-O aliens, with my 3 leg hairs, and I hope my schizophrenic DNA sprays all over you when you crack those babies open. You won’t know what’s hit you. I certainly don’t. That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it. JS