By The Potty Mouth Granny

When I was younger, I used to laugh my ass off at Eddie Murphy’s stand-up comedy special Delirious. One of my favorite routines was about his Aunt Bunny, a rather unfortunate-looking woman with a mustache that Eddie compared to Billy Dee Williams’s.

I thought that shit was hilarious.

Well, guess what?

I have officially become Aunt Bunny. But I have a beard.

At almost 56 years old, menopause has decided that hot flashes, fatigue, itchy nipples, and the occasional desire to cuss everybody out weren’t enough. Oh, no. Now this hormonal bitch has decided to bless me with a beard.

A BEARD!

What in the hell is going on here?

Nobody told me that entering my crone era would involve the possibility of growing a beard. I was prepared for the wisdom. I was prepared for the freedom. I was even prepared for becoming that eccentric old woman who doesn’t give a damn what anybody thinks.

But I was not prepared to look in the mirror and discover that my chin is auditioning for a role in a barbershop commercial.

And these hairs are disrespectful as hell.

They don’t grow in a nice, orderly fashion. No. One little bastard will appear on my chin overnight, standing straight up like it’s trying to pick up a radio signal. Some of them are snow white.

And let’s discuss the texture.

Why are these hairs so damn coarse? The hair on my head has its own personality, but these chin hairs feel like they were manufactured by a hardware company.

Apparently, declining estrogen levels during menopause can make existing facial hair more noticeable, thanks to the changing balance between estrogen and androgens.

Wonderful.

After decades of menstruation, pregnancy, childbirth, and all the other biological indignities associated with womanhood, my reward is the possibility of growing a goatee.

A GOATEE!

I’ve spent most of my adult life defending women’s right to age naturally, and I still believe that aging is a privilege. I have lost too many women who never had the opportunity to grow old.

But damn it, can I enjoy that privilege without having to inspect my chin every morning?

The irony is that I have fully embraced becoming a crone. I love the wisdom that comes with age. I love no longer feeling obligated to entertain foolishness. I love the freedom of being an older woman who has absolutely no desire to impress anybody.

But apparently, my ovaries have retired, and my facial hair has decided to enter the workforce.

And unlike the rest of us, those little motherfuckers aren’t having any trouble finding employment.

So here I am, nearly 56 years old, embracing my crone era while simultaneously trying to figure out whether I need tweezers, a razor, or a damn barber.

I suppose I could get upset about it, but what’s the point? My body has been changing since puberty, and menopause is simply the latest chapter in this long, strange biological adventure.Besides, if I’ve learned anything about getting older, it’s that sometimes you have to laugh at the absurdity of being human.

And right now, the absurdity is growing directly out of my chin.

Somewhere in the universe, Eddie Murphy’s Aunt Bunny is having the last laugh.

Rest assured, I’m still a fabulous Black woman. I just might need a little chin maintenance before I leave the house.

Menopause, you hairy-ass bitch. 😹

—The Potty Mouth Granny