I’ve always been a gal who wants to own her age. I haven’t had any work done, but I stay out of the sun and use spendy lotions and potions to look as great for my age as possible.
I’ve done a fine job of preventing turkey neck and crow’s feet, but even I couldn’t stave off the nose hair (or chin whiskers, for that matter). Now, look, I’m not looking a genetic gift horse in the mouth (or nostril). My Western European ethnic makeup has resulted in very light to no body hair. For that, I’m thankful (and a bit super-cilia-ous since I have the highly waxed, lasered, and bleached Armenian Sisters Kardashian beat in this arena).
However, time marches on and up my nose, apparently, because as of late, small little dark hairs have the nerve to show their follicles at the entrance to my schnoz.
I turn up my nose at this turn of events, but only to better tweeze the random hair apparent. Aging blows, just like my nose.