Who's Gonna Pluck Your Chin Hair?

I just sat through a long, in-person client meeting with an uninvited guest hanging off my left jowl.

A chin hair.

And we were sitting directly across a narrow table from each other, so this was hardly a situation where distance might have worked in my favor.

Surely this person saw it.

Maybe they didn’t. Maybe they were so captivated by my professional insights that my rogue facial vegetation never entered their field of awareness.

I would like to believe that.

But it was a narrow table.

I discovered it mid-ponder, while rubbing my chin like someone who had something very important to consider. Apparently, what I should have been considering was my chin.

The real betrayal was its location.

I have one recurring chin hair. We have an established relationship. It shows up. I remove it. It shows up again, undeterred by our previous conversation.

But that one lives on the other side.

This was new territory.

Apparently, my chin hair has found a mate.

Good for them. I shall pluck accordingly.

But somewhere between locating a hair and repeatedly closing the tweezers on absolutely nothing but air—because apparently I can feel this thing, see this thing, and still have no idea where it exists in three-dimensional space—I sometimes find myself thinking:

Who is going to do this when I can’t?

What if my hands don’t cooperate anymore? What if I forget that these hairs exist? What if I remember everything else about myself but somehow lose track of the tiny maintenance department meant to operate on my face?

Who will take accountability for my chin hair?

I realize this is an unusual concern.

But I have questions that need answers.

Because I have spent enough time visiting loved ones in assisted living to understand that there is a lot of work involved in helping someone get through a day. Medicine. Bedding. Meals. The things that need to happen, often for many people, often all at once.

My experiences haven’t been entirely negative. There have been kind people doing important work.

Still, they have not left me convinced that someone will have the time, capacity, or desire to pause and say, “Lindsay would absolutely hate this little bastard. Let’s get the tweezers.”

And I would.

I would hate that little bastard.

No offense to anyone who is perfectly happy to let theirs grow, but this is my chin, and I have preferences.

Which, I think, is the part I’m actually wondering about.

Who will know that I care?

Who will care enough to remember?

When my father-in-law was laid up and could no longer trim his own fingernails or toenails, my sister-in-law gave him a mani-pedi on more than one occasion.

I remember thinking how beautiful that was.

I also remember thinking that manicuring my father-in-law’s feet did not sound especially appealing to me.

Both thoughts were present. I will not be revising the story to make myself sound more saintly.

But for the record, I did carry that man’s dentures in my purse.

On two separate occasions.

Once could have been a fluke.

Twice apparently made me his designated dental transport.

Was I entirely comfortable with loose teeth joining the contents of my handbag? No. But there we were.

I loved him. I helped him. My sister-in-law helped him, too. She took care of the toes. I took custody of the teeth.

And I think that distinction matters, because there are things people struggle to do even for someone they love deeply. Poop. Throw up. Feet. We each have our own little department of I want to help, but I may also need to lie down.

That doesn’t tell you how much someone cares. It tells you something about what they can handle.

Still, I wondered: What if it were my dad?

Would the toenail situation feel different?

I haven’t lived that exact situation, so I can’t pretend to know. But my gut says yes. If my dad couldn’t tend to his own toesies, I think I would.

Then I started mentally making a list, which is a strange thing to catch yourself doing.

Whose toenails would I clip?

My kids’. Of course.

My best friend’s. One hundred and ten percent. I would pluck her chin hair, too. There would likely be commentary, but the service would be thorough.

Possibly a mentor who had contributed so much to my life that I couldn’t fully explain what their care had meant to me.

So family alone doesn’t explain it.

Neither does gratitude. My children don’t owe me a lifetime of meaningful contributions before I’ll help them with a nail clipper.

And apparently, even within the same relationship, I may be available for dentures but hesitant about feet.

Human beings are very specific creatures.

Maybe the question is bigger than whose toenails I would clip.

Maybe it’s: When someone I love can’t take care of something anymore, will I notice?

Will I find a way to help?

And if I can’t be the person holding the clippers, can I help find someone who can?

Because I don’t think we all have to be good at every part.

But I hope we can care enough to make sure those parts are covered.

There is something vulnerable about letting someone tend to the parts of you that you usually handle privately. The feet. The fingernails. The hair you didn’t know was there until after the client meeting.

And there is something deeply tender about a person who can do that without making you feel like you have become a burden or a spectacle.

Someone who still sees you.

The you who has preferences. Who likes things a certain way. Who might need help but still has opinions about what is happening on her own damn chin.

I think that’s what stayed with me about my sister-in-law.

She noticed something he couldn’t take care of anymore, and she took care of it.

A quiet, practical kindness. The kind that requires you to sit down, get close, and give someone your time.

I hope I have people like that.

I hope I am a person like that.

And I suppose it would be helpful to actually tell someone about the chin hairs before this becomes an urgent matter of estate planning.

So, to my future designated tweezer person: please check both sides. We appear to be expanding.

You may make fun of me. Honestly, I would be disappointed if you didn’t.

Just know that I care.

And pluck as needed.

Move Like It Matters.