Not by the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin

There is a certain beauty in growing old, specifically the glide toward accepting that everything falls apart at some point.
Humor is the only way to secure sanity when noticing the depletion and decline of our personal vessel.
I no longer find myself defined by my concave stomach (which vanished some 17 years ago never to be heard from again), or my muscular toned legs (which checked out when I got lazy and stopped dancing), or my clavicle (which only appears nowadays via some well placed bronzer).
And truth be told, I'm okay with it. Oh sure, I want to lose those extra 30 lbs, eat clean, and learn to jog, but there much be some part of me that's okay with the whole getting older thing and the accompanying permission to let it all go.
There's a part of me that can't wait to be the somewhat chunky grandma in the room with fire in her eyes and not a care in the world.
The stage I'm at in the aging process, however, seems to foreshadow the irony of things to come.
Some background info: I'm the woman who leaves the house every morning without a stitch of makeup on and rarely even looking at myself in a mirror.
This means I have the tendency to waltz into places with eye boogers and overnight white heads for all to see, but feeling overly confident with my appearance.
Realizing this about myself, I thought I maybe needed to look in the mirror a little more; this is what I found:
Aside from the eye boogers and the zits, some nicely placed in the crease of a wrinkle, I noticed that my hair is growing in much thinner, finer and white. I don't have any problem with this part of getting older. I think white hair is badass. My grandpa had gorgeous silver hair which I'm hoping I inherit. I find white/silver hair regal. It's also a good thing if I don't need to highlight my hair anymore; the thinning and wispy thing though - eh.
But, and I say this with a long pause...
But the hair on my chin is another story all together. The hair on my chin is growing in thicker, coarser and blacker, which is no where near regal.
Not even remotely.
Nope.
The irony is not lost on me; not just the physical irony, the emotional irony as well.
Remember how I want to be the somewhat chunky grandma with fire in her eyes and not a care in the world?
Well, I could embrace the freaky black chin hairs and run with it, but then I might scare the grandchildren but that's just uncool. And what kid wants a grandma they describe as "Round, with white hair and a goatee?"
Kind of kicks the embracing-aging-with-reckless-abandon thing on it's ass, if you ask me.
So, I will try to remember to check myself in the mirror on a regular basis - with my reading glasses on of course because I can't see a friggin' thing without them - and I will temper my embracing the freedom of aging with some regard for not freaking out the rest of the population with whom I come into contact.
And I will monitor the eye boogers, whiteheads and chin hairs for the grandchildren.
Dammit, I'm doin' it for the grandchildren!