Quiet Mountain Essays
| Copyright © 2010 |
| My Grandmother's Whiskers by Noel C. Sundheimer |
When I was a very small girl in Grandma’s lap, I was fascinated with the few scraggly whiskers on
her chin. Once in awhile they would disappear and I would forget about them, as a small child’s
attention span is not that great.
Grandpa shaved, Grandma did not. Grandpa had his shaving brush, shaving soap and the blade he
sharpened. I watched him carefully remove his facial hair every morning. This was something men
did and I was intrigued.
Soon enough, Grandma’s whiskers would show up again. Curly black hairs, not quite like the
sparse, black hairs on her upper lip. I was curious. She didn’t have hair anywhere else except her
head. The cycle continued for years. Here today, gone tomorrow, then back again. Wavy black
hair, gray eyes with black lashes and brows, they all matched. I just thought it was all of what made
my grandmother herself and thought no more about it as I got older.
Then I became a young woman. No hair on my face, but the arms and legs required the use of a
razor if I wanted to be with the times. Hands too. Razor burns or a sloppy depilatory. Ah, the woes
of being fashionable and desirable! Part of the rituals of an American woman.
With Motherhood came teaching my daughters the pros and cons of razor vs. Nair; the plucking of
eyebrows, carefully. The discomfort of razor burn and how to overcome it; and the dangers of
chemicals. Companies came out with peels that left one screaming with pain but took off the hair -
for a while.
As the years went by, I noticed that the hair on my legs, arms, hands, and under my arms, was
thinning. In my fifties, it all disappeared, and showed up on my upper lip. Annoyed that God would
play such a trick, I wielded a disposable razor on it. As a nurse, I had learned how to shave people, so
it was no big deal. Annoying, yes; end of the world, no.
Enter my sixties. I’m bemoaning my face in the mirror one day and see something on my chin. A
few, curly, mostly black hairs had popped out. As time went by, one or two turned gray. When I
shave them, I think of how God has given me my grandmother’s whiskers, and I smile.
her chin. Once in awhile they would disappear and I would forget about them, as a small child’s
attention span is not that great.
Grandpa shaved, Grandma did not. Grandpa had his shaving brush, shaving soap and the blade he
sharpened. I watched him carefully remove his facial hair every morning. This was something men
did and I was intrigued.
Soon enough, Grandma’s whiskers would show up again. Curly black hairs, not quite like the
sparse, black hairs on her upper lip. I was curious. She didn’t have hair anywhere else except her
head. The cycle continued for years. Here today, gone tomorrow, then back again. Wavy black
hair, gray eyes with black lashes and brows, they all matched. I just thought it was all of what made
my grandmother herself and thought no more about it as I got older.
Then I became a young woman. No hair on my face, but the arms and legs required the use of a
razor if I wanted to be with the times. Hands too. Razor burns or a sloppy depilatory. Ah, the woes
of being fashionable and desirable! Part of the rituals of an American woman.
With Motherhood came teaching my daughters the pros and cons of razor vs. Nair; the plucking of
eyebrows, carefully. The discomfort of razor burn and how to overcome it; and the dangers of
chemicals. Companies came out with peels that left one screaming with pain but took off the hair -
for a while.
As the years went by, I noticed that the hair on my legs, arms, hands, and under my arms, was
thinning. In my fifties, it all disappeared, and showed up on my upper lip. Annoyed that God would
play such a trick, I wielded a disposable razor on it. As a nurse, I had learned how to shave people, so
it was no big deal. Annoying, yes; end of the world, no.
Enter my sixties. I’m bemoaning my face in the mirror one day and see something on my chin. A
few, curly, mostly black hairs had popped out. As time went by, one or two turned gray. When I
shave them, I think of how God has given me my grandmother’s whiskers, and I smile.
| Contributor's Notes... |
Ms. Sundheimer is a retired nurse, mother of four, grandmother and great-grandma, who came late to writing. If
Grandma Moses was a 'primitive' painter, then Sundheimer guesses she is a 'primitive' writer. She has been a
ward clerk, nurses aide, scanner, and record press operator. Sundheimer writes poetry, draws some, and has
completed a memoir. She currently lives in the wilds of Florida, a long way from her home turf of Brooklyn, N.Y.
Grandma Moses was a 'primitive' painter, then Sundheimer guesses she is a 'primitive' writer. She has been a
ward clerk, nurses aide, scanner, and record press operator. Sundheimer writes poetry, draws some, and has
completed a memoir. She currently lives in the wilds of Florida, a long way from her home turf of Brooklyn, N.Y.
