flossing the cat

My eleven year old has become obsessed with the question of lady whiskers. MY lady whiskers. I catch her standing in the kitchen doorway staring at me as I cook dinner. She looks decidedly queasy. "You ok?" I say. "Something wrong?" She is staring directly at my face. Clearly, my face is the thing that is wrong. "It's a stubble isn't it?" I say, finally. Her concern over my chin hair has become routine. Terrified that I might be morphing into Gandalf, she has taken to scanning my face for deviant follicles. I give my chin a quick sweep to reassure her. "Nothing there", I say breezily.  "I plucked them this morning!" I see her gag and little and figure that "plucked" is one of those words, (like "moist" or "Michael Gove"), that revolts people. "It's underneath. In the middle!" she says, with rising hysteria. "It's sticking out loads. It's totally black&quo