Why do we women spend hours and hours waxing our arms, legs and what-nots? Why do we cry at the sight of an injection syringe and yet clench our fists through the unbearable pain of threading our eyebrows? Why do we let them (them refers to the parlour people) powder our moustaches and endure the stinging pain of upper-lip hair removal, as involuntary tears threaten to sweep away the parlour? And then we go around with a red ring around our mouths looking like orangutans escaped from a zoo.
Oh, the indignity of it all!
I wonder how many of us realize that when we are dead, all the hair grows right back.
All you hairy moustached women rotting in your graves, show us the light!