In short, I loved all. Save one.
My aunt. 14.
She had a mustache. Okay, in this world of grown-ups, we call it a harelip. Whatever.
She had it.
And when she smiled, she looked a moth-eaten attempt to Charlie Chaplin.
She looked like cat with really short whiskers.
She looked like a sad walrus.
She looked like a fourteen year old disgruntled boy.
And so one day I protested, and told her to get rid of all that hair.
I was ruder, actually, and I pulled on them a bit.
She was not happy.
But I wished she had shaved them off. I really did.
So I pulled on a few of them really hard, and they came out, and she howled.
Of course, I was not spared.
But I still wish I had pulled off more of her hair.