"You have a moustache."
I had just sat down at the table and started setting up the cards for a game of Memory with Sam and Jackson when Sam greeted me with his first words of the day.
I looked up at him, various thoughts and emotions zipping through my head.
"Oh, really, kid? Like I never noticed.
Like I hadn't seen the thing growing on my upper lip every day since I was twelve. It's just the first thing I notice in every single photograph taken of me in the last twenty years."
I looked up at him, still arranging the cards, and answered, "Yes, I do," while thinking, "Deal the cards, just deal the cards."
Oh, clearly his Auntie hadn't heard him correctly. He chose to repeat himself in a louder voice.
"You have a moustache!"
Good lord, kid, like I haven't tried every. single. freakin' type of hair removal or minimizer created by man to get rid of the thing. Like I haven't spent thousands of dollars to deal with the issue and can tell anyone the merits and disadvantages of shaving, waxing, bleaching, or zapping (with light or electricity) hairs for hours on end.
Like I haven't spent the last two decades completely self-conscious about the hair on my upper lip, kid.
"Yes, Sam, you just said that. I heard you the first time. Why do you think it necessary to repeat yourself?"
"Um, well, I didn't think you knew."
I do now, kid.