When did loving myself become another thing I was supposed to find time for?

Don’t get me wrong. There are parts of “taking care of myself” I could happily live without. Shaving my legs, for one. And then there’s the mustache my body insists on growing.

Ladies, we can politely call it upper-lip hair if that makes everyone more comfortable.

It’s a mustache.

Which raises another question: who exactly is in charge here?

I’m regularly removing things my body keeps putting back. So apparently, part of taking care of myself involves fighting with myself.

And frankly, it’s exhausting.

But I can’t think about it right now—I have to go.

Maybe the realest act of self-care left isn’t adding another task to the list, but subtracting one.

Today, I think I’ll cancel the appointment, throw away the razor, and just let my mustache win.