Who says you can’t have your cake and eat it too?

So on Friday, I got the shocker of my life. “Ukumela ndevu ngati ine?” said a friend whom I had gone to visit over their lunch break at work. Now, it’s not that I didn’t know I have developed smatterings of very pronounced hair on my chin; no. It’s that I had fallen into the trap that only ensnares rich men and politicians- of which I am neither, as evidenced below, but we shall analyse whence I came to fall into this trap another day.
Image
(Actually, this photo is not evidence at all; I just really dig it and have been looking for a non-presumptuous way of sharing it with the world)

I digress. The constant companion of my working hours has always obliged me with a, “what beard are you talking about? I can’t even see anything,” to the point that I have been compelled to disregard the joint testimony of my eyes and fingertips which both attest to the existence of un-womanly (so there is ‘unmanly’ in the English language but not ‘unwomanly’) happenings on my jaw and to embrace the witness of a third party. So my friend’s statement gave me a very coarse and harsh jolt out of delusion land * BUT* the new age mantra is all about taking it like a champ; playing the cards you are dealt; blah blah SO it’s either I choose to rock the beard or get rid of the beard.
               **Alert** I am just messing; the first option is not really an option; please do   

                not rock beards; ‘Women! Please do not rock beards!’

So, I have seen some others of my friends in the same predicament plucking their beards; me? I don’t go down like that. I am not about the ‘treating the symptoms and not curing the disease’ philosophies. I ‘hit the snake on the head’; ‘go straight to the root of the problem’. So the problem is…LACK OF ESTROGEN vis a vis TOO MUCH TESTOSTERONE, and if I go deeper (sound effects: go deepppeeeer) we will see that this is because of this ‘independent woman’ bullshit: I am doing too much for myself, by myself, so because psychologically, I have taken on the role of the man in my life, my physical self has gotten the memo and is following suit- Lawrd knows I know it ain’t genetic: My mama didn’t even have a shadow of a ‘stache, and my two sisters’ faces testify to that. Anyway, since marriage does not seem to be around any corner, I think its best I become someone’s mistress: a kept woman, with all my material and financial obligations catered to, while still leaving me to my independence sans beard. Who says you can’t have your cake and eat it too?

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