Oh hair we go!

Shit's about to get real people. Saddle up!

Reality has been crapping all over me recently. Three family members diagnosed with cancer in the last couple of weeks then last night I was watching the Oprah interview with Viola Davis. They were talking about growing up poor, black children - yes, like Steve Martin - and the obstacles they overcame and I just wanted to scream at all of them. "Shut up! I have real problems here!"

I'm just going to come out of the closet with it.

My name is Molly and beginning last night...I wax my mustache.

Well, I don't actually wax it. My stylist does because I don't believe in causing yourself physical pain. That's dumb and those people just want attention. Stupid cutters. So like a reasonable human being I pay someone to rip hair off my body using hot wax. At my last appointment she found a single dark hair. We swore never to speak of it again and she plucked it immediately. At this appointment, no dark hair but the blond peach fuzz toward the corners of my mouth was increasing significantly. The time had come. It must be waxed. The saddest part of this is not getting the hair actually ripped off my body and feeling the heartbeat in my lip. It's the fact that this process - this new step in my beauty regime, will never end. In 50 years I'll be whoring it up in my mid-80's (hubby will be dead by then and a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do, yo!) still waxing my mustache.

Now, I'm sure you're saying, "But Molly, I had no idea you had a flaw."

You better correct yo'self before you wreck yo'self. A flaw is something you don't fix. If I were to let the mustache go - this would be a flaw. This is a slight imperfection that I cover up. Like my roots. God put these little things on me to help bring me down to your level. Make me look less super human.

Mustaches belong on child molesters only. It's the key identifier. You don't need that web site that identifies the child molesters in your neighborhood. Does your neighbor have a mustache? Then keep him away from your child. Or move. If you're telling me I'm wrong - your husband has a mustache and he's not a child molester - then explain to me why he spends so much time at the park without the kids. It's not a stereotype if it's true, people.

As for me, the area above my upper lip has never been so smooth.

And no, I don't want your balls on it, pervert. Go shave your 'stache.