Admittedly, Movember has left me a rather confused young lady. You see, being rather fond of the prostrate, I wanted to do my part to save it, but I’ve never grown a beard before and didn’t really know where to start. Yes, yes, before you start protesting at me, I know, its suppose to be a Mo, not a beard, but the only facial hair I’ve ever been able to grow is the odd hair in my chinny, chin, chin, so let a gal dream will yeah. So try as I might, I was in a similar conundrum as Debs Anne …
… I just wish I had the singing and dancing fairy mo father.
Without a fairy Mo father, I tried growing my pits and then my legs … yes, once again, not mos, and not at all conducive to my dating life, which has resulted in an increased use of the razor then the rest of the year. For one scary moment I actually considered a merkin for my upper lip, thanks to a man that puts far too many warped ideas in my head. Yes, HR, that will amount to a few more of my therapy bills for you to cover. And before I knew it it was November 30th with no Mo to show.
No mo, but the confusing reality that I find mos on women so much sexier than mos on men. I mean I sat at work today horrified by the parade of creepy looking men sporting mos past me (amazing how few can pull them off), yet everywhere I look online these days, I keep seeing hot, hot women sporting their mos in-style. I gotta grow me a mo next year.
In the meantime, here’s my pick for donating.
Whiskery Kisses,
Emme xoxo
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