Cross-eyed to the poltergeist

I have a hair that grows out of the exterior of my nostril.
At the ski slope part of your nose that you fingered as a child to determine if your nose was proportionate enough to escape ridicule on the playground.
Mine was.
I was never ridiculed, for my nose.
A year ago I noticed a small blonde hair.
It's nothing to send me to eternal bliss with the other freaks from 'The Crysalids' but it's there.
I'd guess 1 1/2 millimeters in length, microscopic in Gerth.
I always notice it in passing, I'm in a softly lighted bathroom, and it catches the yellow glow of a 40 watt bulb, shimmers like gold in a separating pan.
I search for it in the bright, honest light of a fluorescent bulb.
It evades me.
I forget it's there.
It haunts me, I forget I have it, and then it makes itself apparent as I'm making sure I have no boogers in my nose, or when I am brushing my teeth.
ALWAYS, when I do not have tweezers within an arms reach.
When I look for it, it hides.
When I forget it's there, it shows up.
Always in the same spot, always the same hair.
It's so small and insignificant but it presents itself like a bumblebee that has landed on my face.
I want it gone, but when I act to swat it it's not there anymore.
The surprisingly sharp edges of metal tweezers roam along my nose at the will of my eyes as guides, yet no final attack is ever recognized.
The hair hides.
Dives back into one of my pores and obtains the role of jivey soldier.
Remember that 'whack a mole' game that always had the shittiest prizes at the carnival.
This nose hair is the mole I want to whack, but the prize is monumental.
I will be free of this tufted horror.
Free of this phantasmal irritant.
If my tweezers and a 40 watt light bulb ever line up, I'm going to show a little 'whose who' to the hairs we grow at the demise of our twenties.
Live in fear tiny cursed follicle.
I am coming for your baby.