On Chin Hairs, Sam Hill, and the Stories We Collect

Jean has a talent for taking the small, ridiculous indignities of aging and turning them into stories that make people laugh, nod, and mutter “oh thank God it’s not just me.” In this piece, she tackles one of the great universal mysteries of womanhood after a certain age: the stealth chin hair. Along the way she wanders into euphemisms, Michigan history, hormonal betrayal, and the sacred friendship pact involving tweezers. It’s part rant, part folklore, part confession — and Jean at her silliest best. ...AI

How in the Sam Hill do whiskers on women over a certain age manage to grow three inches long before — with great embarrassment — you finally see them in the mirror? I look at my face with a magnifying mirror every morning. I wash my face every night. I see my face in between when I refresh my lipstick or wash my hands. Still, it’s always when I’m driving to an appointment or running errands that I’ll glance in the rear‑view mirror and see a foot‑long, gray chin hair waving at me like it’s hitchhiking. I swear these things grow overnight like they’re auditioning for the stage production of Jack the Beanstalk.

Someday I’m going to rear‑end someone, and when the police officer asks if I was texting, I’ll probably say, “No sir, but do you happen to have a pair of tweezers? I can’t get a mugshot taken with this mile‑long hair on my face.”

Turns out I’m not alone in this battle. One of my fellow residents here on my continuum‑care campus confessed recently that she has an agreement with her daughter: every visit includes a mandatory chin‑check. She hates to see old women with long, curly strands of hair bouncing up and down as they talk. Don’t we all? Especially when it’s on our own faces and we’re trapped in a car with a chin hair that’s trying to get us killed in an accident.

I’ve resorted to keeping a pair of tweezers in the car because there’s something about the light coming in from all angles that makes those stray hairs pop like neon signs. Not that it makes them any easier to grab. They like to play peek‑a‑boo in my chicken‑like wattles, darting in and out like they’re training for a covert ops mission. Yes, I know I could go to one of those fancy waxing places, but for one or two stray hairs, is it really worth what they charge?

And speaking of things that sneak up on you, here’s a tangent I promise is connected: did you know the “Sam Hill” in the “How in the Sam Hill…?” euphemism was an actual person? If you didn’t grow up hearing it the way I did, you may not know it’s basically a polite stand‑in for “what the hell.” It’s one of those versatile expressions that can convey confusion, exasperation, or disbelief. “How in the Sam Hill am I supposed to know that!” or “How in the Sam Hill did you do that!”

According to Google, Sam W. Hill was a 19th‑century surveyor and mine developer in Copper Harbor, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. He was well known for his “colorful vocabulary,” which is a polite way of saying he swore like a lumberjack with a stubbed toe and a pint of whiskey in his hand. His friends and neighbors would retell his stories but substitute “Sam Hill” for the cuss words. From there, the phrase spread beyond the Keweenaw Peninsula and somehow survived all the way into the 21st century.

It amazes me how euphemisms born before radio, before TV, before social media still manage to hang on. Maybe the slower pace helped them stick? Maybe clever phrases had time to settle into the language instead of being replaced every three seconds by whatever TikTok is doing today. Or maybe Sam Hill was simply the 1800s version of going viral — just slower and with more flannel.

According to AI, the fine, wispy facial hair on the chin and jawline of older women is caused by “shifting hormone levels — specifically, a drop in estrogen alongside a relative increase in androgens during menopause.” I am well past menopause, but I was recently prescribed estrogen as part of my sleep apnea treatment, which begs the question: Why in the Sam Hill am I still growing chin hairs? Perhaps instead of applying the estrogen cream down there, I should try slathering it on my chin.

And why in the Sam Hill is it socially acceptable to poke fun at the biological realities of menopause? I don’t know who first said it, but I’ve never forgotten the joke about The Friendship Test: it’s about which of your friends will pledge to come to the hospital if you’re ever in a coma and pluck your chin hairs. I tried to Google the origin, but there were dozens of references in blogs and TikTok videos. So instead of going down that rabbit hole, I decided to vent about this First World Problem by writing about it too.

Aging hands us plenty of indignities, but it also hands us stories — and the older I get, the more I’m coming around to realize the stories matter far more than the stray hairs ever will. And if the day ever comes when I’m too old or too out of it to pluck my own chin hairs, I hope someone I love will lean over my hospital bed, sigh dramatically, and say, “Well, Sam Hill help us — she’s sprouted another one.” ©

See you next Wednesday!

Spying on Myself and Finding Ghosts

March 16^th. How did that happen? Life goes by too quickly and sometimes I think that happens because I tend to over schedule myself but I know if I didn’t the Lord of Boredom steps up to harass me. And he has a wicked sense of humor. Monday I took Levi to the Foo-Foo Doggie Beauty Spa, then I picked up some lunch, stopped at the pet store and on to the grocery before swinging back around to collect the dog. Tuesday and Wednesday I emptied out my bedroom and bathroom of everything I could carry to get ready for the painters to come beautify my rooms. (You should have seen all the stuff I purged out of my media cabinet and my medicine cabinet!) Wednesday I went to a lecture on Music Theory and how it affects the brain. Thursday was book club day and I’m composing this post before the painters are due on Friday. Is this lineup enough to qualify as over-scheduling my life? It wouldn’t have been back in my heydays when if I didn’t have a half-dozen things to do each day I was on vacation.

Meanwhile back at the ranch I’ve been playing with my little spy tape recorder. Years ago when I was using it a lot, I had a bad habit of not labeling the tapes I made. And since I wanted to recorder myself sleeping to see if I snore with and without the Snore Stopper device I wrote about last week, I decided I should listen to a few tapes to see if there was anything worth keeping before I recorded over one of them. The first two I listened to were conversations with my dad---he died in 1999. Worth keeping. The third tape I pop in was a shocker. It was my husband’s last out-going message from his telephone answering machine. The forth tape had me cracking up laughing along with myself laughing on the tape. I was attending a lecture given by the humor columnist from our local newspaper but there’s no denying the other voices on the tape were mine and my husband’s from 25+ years ago. A few minutes into the lecture the speaker had asked the audience members to each state our names and why we came to the lecture. Here’s what I heard…

“My name is Jean and I’m here because I don’t get a lot of humor.”

The speaker: “Are there any comedians or comedy shows you do get and like?”

I like Barry Miller,” I answered, “but I don’t get Woody Allen. I really don’t!” Then the speaker explained the differences in the two kinds of humor employed in my examples. 

Next up was my husband. “I’m Don and I’ve got to agree with her. She doesn’t get all humor and I think she’s funny when she’s not getting humor.” I’m laughing in the background as he went on…and on. “Barry Miller is a classic and Night Court. I predict in the future there will be tapes of those shows we can watch over and over again and still see the humor in them. Robin Williams is another. When he gets on a roll---say on the Johnny Carson Show---he can have us laughing until our stomachs ache. Another thing I find funny are your columns.” Don was being a kiss-up, but I could tell he was nervous speaking in public because he always talked faster when he was. It made me feel warm and fuzzy inside to hear the two of us having a good time laughing and interacting with the group. But I’m glad he wasn’t around to see what happened to Robin Williams. Don dealt with a few periods of deep depression in his life---which few people knew about---and Robin’s suicide would have hit him hard.

The first night I set the voice activated recorder to find out if I snore I was in bed from midnight to eight in the morning but my Fitbit claimed I only got three hours of sleep, the rest of the time I was restless. Now I know why. I’m not snoring but I sure am having a lot of conversations in a language that would take an intergalactic interpreter to translate. Pure gibberish punctuated with laughter and some whimpering and apparently I must look at the clock because at one point I said, “Three o’clock” as clear as a bell. Interestingly enough it was after 3:00 when Fitbit said I actually slept deep enough not to be labeled ‘restless.’ The second night I set the recorder I was wearing the Snore Stopper “baskets” up my nose and my Fitbit said I slept 6 hours and 53 minutes with only 49 minutes being labeled ‘restless.’ But the funny part was the words I was saying were easier to understand and there were less of them. 

Talking in your sleep is generally harmless, according to my online search and the only treatment needed is having your bed partner wear ear plugs, but have you ever tried making a dog wear them? I’d probably forget to take them back out in the morning and spend all day wondering why he’s ignoring me. It’s the Lord of Boredom who makes me do experiences like this, but all kidding aside, how much does a sleep study cost these days? A $1,000+? And I’ll bet I wouldn’t have learned a whole lot more. ©

An Afternoon with my Two Favorite People

Friday night I packed the back of my Chevy Trax up with an oddball collection of stuff, all with one thing connecting them to another---my parents.  There was a coat and hat rack from the turn-of-century, a small side table/book case my dad made, a box of silverware, a box of containing embroidery pieces my mom did, a few of her hand crocheted dollies, a baby quilt she made for either my brother or me, a quilt she made for my dolls, a set of embroidery quilt blocks that never got put together and my brother’s and my baby blankets. I was actually worried I’d get into a rear in collision on the way to the lake and these things I’ve been holding onto would get destroyed before I had a chance to put them up for grabs.

The next day I almost fulfilled that car accident vision in my head and it would have been a doozy. I was in the right hand lane of the expressway going through the busy city and after passing a large convoy of slow moving military equipment in the center lane, I put my turn signal on to pull in front of the head truck in the convoy and at the exact, same time a car in the far left lane was doing same. We came towards each other like two fat and happy sports fans coming together for a belly bump. And like a synchronized ballet we both saw each other at the same time and jerked ourselves back to where we came from, the belly bump not completed. Thank goodness! I would bet money that the young guy driving that head military truck was peeing his pants. I know I would have been if I hadn’t just emptied my bladder at home five minutes before the almost pileup of heavy equipment that surely would have closed the highway down for hours. At least my obituary would have noted the fact that I always follow the rules of life. “She died in a fiery crash, her turn signal still flashing when the fire department arrived.” 

I met my two nieces at a popular bakery/restaurant for lunch before going over to the family cottage to have what one of my nieces dubbed an episode of the Antiques Road Show. After the waitress took our orders my oldest niece told the waitress to bring her the check and I protested telling her to give it to me. The waitress said, “The first one to speak up wins.” My younger niece laughed and said, she told her husband that’s exactly what would happen. Niece #1 always has an excuse for taking the check, this time it was because niece #2 had a birthday in August and I was bringing family treasures out for them to pick through. One time niece #1's excuse for taking the check was, “I just got a new credit card and I want to see if it works.” When hearing that, her nephew naively asking, “Why wouldn’t it? You have to apply to get them” which had everyone howling with laughter. 

Niece #1 is enamored with all things mid-century and she was thrilled to get my mom’s silverware. Before I gave the set to her I researched to find the pattern name on Replacements Ltd. and I had to go through 28 pages of flatware before it popped up. When I saw that ‘1950’ release date, I was so excited that she’s lucky I didn’t call her because it was after midnight. Replacements Ltd. is a great resource for finding missing pieces of vintage and antique crystal, china and flatware sets. I love Google. I was also able to find the building plans for the revolving book case/end table that my dad built for my mom’s 1958 Christmas present. I have my ways of paying my niece back for lunches. I snapped those plans up on e-Bay. She was a teacher and will enjoy that show-and-tell prop.

But the most fun part of the day was when niece #2 told a long-drawn out story about a trip she made to Pet Smart to buy a goldfish and they wouldn’t sell it to her after asking what size tank she had (15 gallons) and how many fish she already had (three). She was told her a fish would die with four in a tank that size and then she’d come back wanting a replacement. “What if I sign a pledge not to bring back a dead fish for replacement, would you sell it to me then?” “Nope.” “You’re serious!” “Very.” “Can I see your manager?” After telling the manager she’s got four grandchildren and she wanted a forth fish so they’d each have one to name the manager told her if she didn’t quit trying to buy a fish they’d have to ask her to leave the store. She ended the story by saying she went to another store that confirmed the fact that four fish in a fifteen gallon tank is too many. PETA guidelines. “So you won’t sell me one either?” “I’ll sell you anything you want,” the clerk said. Niece #1 and I had tears running down our cheeks we were laughing so hard. Niece #2 has always had a great sense of humor and a personality that makes her fun to be around but until that afternoon I didn’t realize that she could easily do standup comedy. ©

Mind Tricks, Isolation and Solitude

 

It’s been a hard week on my ego and loneliness meter…and that sucks. There’s that word again, the one I claim to hate but have been using too much lately. What am I whining about this time? Woe is me, there wasn't many people around to interact with this week. Ya, I know, everyone (but me) had places to go and things to do and those who didn’t were camping out in front of their air conditioners trying to avoid the blistering heat. Even the blog community has been slow. Ditto on Facebook and replies to a mass e-mail sent to my Gathering Girls group seeking RSVPs for our bimonthly brunch came in so late I was nervous we’d have to cancel. And worst of all, one of the few humans I saw all week, the cashier at the grocery store “chatted” in grunts, having left his words at home in his other pair of pants. Who knows, maybe his Guinea pig died that morning and grunts were all he could muster for a woman old enough to be his great-grandmother. Wait! Was I wearing my hearing aids? Maybe he was just a low talker like the guy featured in a Jerry Seinfeld episode.

Either way, the lady at Starbucks spoke in full sentences while she finished cleaning a machine, “I’ll be right with you, Sweetie," she said. "Give me a minute to get this back together.” Grey hair earns you nicknames like that, but I’m not complaining. The only other voice I’ve heard the past few days was the “card services” robocall-lady---Rachel---who promised to lower my rates if only I’d press #1 and give the scammer my credit card numbers. Sometimes I wish I had one of those old Chatty Cathy dolls who’d talk to me with a pull of her string. But she was a needy lump of vinyl under her nylon wig, always saying things like: “Tell me a story” and “Please brush my hair” or asking questions like, “Do you love me?” “Will you play with me?” and “May I have a cookie?” That’s just what I’d need, someone else competing with me for the cookies in the house. Levi my Might Schnauzer can smell sugar-loaded treats from two rooms over.

Four of the seven in my Gathering Girls group did show up for our two hour brunch on Monday. (The other three had medical issues keeping them from joining us.) We had a spirited conversation about books, movies and bumpy finger joints, fancy rings and the relentless heat. I love being with these ladies. We crack each other up continuously. I was the only one without some place to go on the 4rd of July. (That would be another 'woe is me' if you're counting.) I wish we all lived within cup-of-sugar-borrowing distance. Not that I have much use for raw sugar these days. I did clean, hull and mash two quarts of strawberries for shortcake that could have used sweetening. My belly and my freezer thanked me for the berries anyway. And so did Levi. He sat patiently at my knee when I cut them up waiting for the slivers he got every time 4-5 strawberries went into the stainless steel mixing bowl. He’s got great manners. Levi also got a great haircut this week. Yes, his social life was equally as isolated as mine over the holiday week. My brunch and his haircut were the sum total of our fun.  

“Isolation is aloneness that feels forced upon you, like a punishment,” wrote Jeanne Marie Laskas. “Solitude is aloneness you choose and embrace. I think great things can come out of solitude, out of going to a place where all is quiet except the beating of your heart.” I do find that beating-of-your-own-heart solitude from time to time but I’m sure I’m not the only one who occasionally struggles to find that illusive factor that turns times of isolation into solitude. Over the Fourth, people all around me were having family time or traveling and even if I stayed off Facebook my mind’s eye could still see those happy faces and almost smell the food on their grills. (Oh, wait. that's my neighbor's grill I'm smelling. I'm guessing its steak.)

Doris Grumbach in Fifty Days of Solitude wrote: “The reason that extended solitude seemed so hard to endure was not that we missed others but that we began to wonder if we ourselves were present, because for so long our existence depended upon assurances from them.” Oh. My. God! That’s me! Apparently I need people to (metaphorically) pat me on the top of my head and feed my ego by saying, “Good girl!” Painting, writing, cooking, knitting, reading, keeping a nice house---none of those are good enough if it’s only my own voice telling me I did well. 

I send these thoughts off with the winds and whims of Mother Cyberspace hoping they’ll find someone who knows how to do the “mind trick” that transitions our hours of isolation into solitude. And it is a mind trick, something that has to come from within... ©

If this were true for humans, wouldn't I have wings like Tinker Bell by now?