Today I found a long bristle,
Upon my chinny chin chin,
And my fragile shell of vanity,
Like the little pig’s house, caved in.
I sought my mother’s wise counsel,
For the first time in thirty five years,
But the revelation imparted,
Did nothing to stifle my fears.
Apparently whiskers are common,
As you head down the menopause track,
Whilst men lose their hair, we get more to spare,
God, I hope it won’t sprout on my back.
It seems I’ll be doomed to plucking,
Or have them electrically speared,
For if I let nature have her own way,
I’d sport a luxuriant beard.
There’s always the option of shaving;
I’d bond with my husband each day,
We’d both lather up every morning,
To scrape all our worries away.
Considering my changing complexion,
From peaches to old kiwifruit,
I could then change my beauty care options,
And swop my Clinique for his Brut.