HAIR ON MY CHINNY CHIN CHIN

A Contest Not to Win

Daytona Beach, Florida . . . known around the word as the home of NASCAR racing. 

My husband has this uncanny ability of seeing people he knows no matter where we are. That’s not such a big deal when we’re eating out at our favorite local restaurant, but a little more surprising when we’re in an airport in the Dominican Republic or Mexico or Hawaii. He really does see people he knows in all those places! And if he doesn’t run into a long-lost friend, he makes friends immediately just by letting them know we’re from Daytona Beach. These airport strangers think we must live exciting and glamourous lives. At those moments I have a choice to make. Consider that I am typically annoyed that my husband is taking up our valuable together time having conversations with almost friends—and not me. I could A) announce that Daytona Beach is a hick town and walk away in a huff, or B) embrace the vision and let them believe we have been featured on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. B is much more fun.

Locals are not so impressed with Daytona Beach. Most of us suffer from the “grass is always greener” syndrome, no matter where we live. However, Daytona Beach locals do get involved with the lesser-known phenomenon of Bike Week. Suddenly, every outfit around town has black leather and chains, and denim and lace.

The highlight of the week is an annual contest: Who Can Grow the Best Bike Week Beard? This competition is somewhat laughable for my husband—and I’m not just being mean—he will say the same thing. He is not one of those guys who shaves every day, maybe it’s only a couple of times a week. But nonetheless, he’s compelled to participate in this annual display of masculinity.

After two weeks of willing his beard to grow, I suggested he could use my magnifying mirror to get a better look. I must admit this was a bit mean—especially when I demonstrated, in slow motion, how to use the mirror.

And as I was finishing up my demo, there it was . . . in 10X magnification . . . right on the tip of my chin— the longest, darkest black hair I’d ever seen! And upon closer examination, there were MORE! My chin was covered in fine hairs. My husband, witnessing my discovery, suggested I should enter the contest; I’d have a pretty good chance. Payback is hell.

How could I have not noticed this? How could he have let me walk around—in public no less—with a beard growing on my chin?! I made an appointment with the eye doctor the next day.

Maybe less than perfect vision as we age is a blessing in disguise. I can’t see his flaws and imperfections and he can’t see mine.

My husband didn’t win the Best Biker Beard contest again this year . . . and neither did I.

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