GRANDMA’S WHISKERS

A few days ago, as I was absorbed in one of the more unpleasant tasks that come with aging (the incessant battle with incursions of hair growth in unwanted places like ears and nose) I was, for the first time in a very long time, reminded of one memorable evening spent with Grandma Wilson.

        It may surprise some to learn that Grandma was a bit vain about her appearance, especially when she would go to church on Sunday.  She always had a great complexion, even into her later years, a feature she attributed to Ivory Soap and Oil of Olay.  So, Saturday evenings would sometimes involve the plucking of a few chin whiskers.  It was an almost weekly ritual.  She would gather her mirror and tweezers and situate herself on the couch beside a window in the “front room”.   As a kid, I found this to be a fascinating spectacle and I watched with rapt attention.

        On one occasion she had some difficulty holding the mirror steady enough to clearly see the tiny hairs.  She asked me   to hold the mirror and I eagerly obliged, happy to be included.  It was briefly effective, but she soon tired of it and said she couldn’t see well enough to continue.  I told her she had missed a couple of the whiskers, my young eyes a bit sharper than hers.  It was then that she asked me if I could take the tweezers and pluck the stubborn remainders.  

        I am amazed at the clarity of this memory, these many years later.  I remember how the tweezers felt in my hand and the ease by which the whisker came free of her skin.  I remember the smile on her face when I had accomplished what was, to me, a wondrous feat.

        It was only a couple of times that I had this particular interaction with her.  It must sound kind of strange, but it is one of my favorite memories of the Grandma I adored.