Like many women, I have wild hairs that grow on my chin. Amidst the barely visible down that adorns every woman’s chin, I have random stiff hairs, standing dark and proud. Staunch, rugged individuals among the insubstantial fluff. Rebels.
I tend to keep these hairs plucked and my chin tidily feminine, but a week of wrangling boxes and furniture left my boar bristles free reign. My chin looked decidedly mangy this morning as I lucked each pioneer, each thick outpost, from my face.
On the eve of Imbolc, the season of initiation, my chin hair seems to be a symbol of something. Plowing under last year’s corn stalks to prepare the ground for a new crop. Shedding the old in readiness for the new. Beautifying the temple of my body as the earth prepares to deck herself in flowers.
I think today I will spend some time grooming my person and my living space, so that tomorrow I will be refreshed and ready to groom my mind into a poetic bent, for the 7th Annual Brigid Poetry Festival.