When a conversation starts,
“Mummy, will I have a moustache one day like you.”
You accept it is going to be a bad day.
When that comment comes from your perfectly smooth chinned seven year old son, you accept the day can probably get worse.
You try and leave the bathroom to avoid the barrage of questions you know are bubbling under his chin, rising dangerously in his throat, ready to erupt all over you and the tub.
But he is a clever little sod and has positioned his small but mighty bulk between the bath and the door frame, leaving you pinned, helpless, between the sink and the toilet.
“Why don’t you shave like Daddy? Do ladies shave?”
Humiliation washes over you as you risk a glance in the mirror to see if you grew a full face of hair overnight. Then you remember that is only 6.55am and you have yet to put in contact lenses. Teen wolf could be staring back through the mirror and you wouldn’t be able to tell.
For once you are thankful for your lack of sight.
“Does Daddy get mad if you use his razor? Is that what he meant that time when he said you made it blunt?”
Desperate to save yourself from this excruciating conversation and keen to defend yourself at same time, you blurt out..
“I didn’t use his razor on my chin, it was my legs…”
“Blimey,” comes the retort, “don’t tell me I am going to get hairy legs like you as well, the hamster has less fur.”
I have full acceptance that this is going to be a bad day.