The other day I was on the bus and there was an old lady sitting on one of the inward facing seats, and the sun was shining in on her, spotlighting a very long single hair protruding from her chin. I wanted to get out my tweezers (which I never leave home without) and pluck that thing (not that I would ever have touched her).
But it made me think: Who's going to pluck those hairs for me? Well, my Bill of course, providing he can see them. Is that the new definition of romance? Someone who will pluck your chin hairs? Do you smoke a cigarette afterwards?