A Hairy Situation
I am committing one of the greatest societal taboos and revealing a secret that heretofore has been zealously guarded throughout the ages. It is a correlate to childbirth in that just as post-menopausal women wouldn’t dare tell an expectant mother how truly agonizing childbirth is, no man in his 50s would traumatize a man in his youthful prime with fears of the anatomical horror that is to come.
But times have changed and new technology places men in grave danger, so now you must know of this biological atrocity, in order that you might avoid my disastrous screw-up: Sometime around midlife, men’s hair follicles undergo a revolting mutation. While the hair atop one’s head thins and drops, new hair grows in places you never imagined.
Bristle-stiff tufts sprout outside and inside of ears, and up nostrils. Eyebrows become bushy, unruly, and coarse. Hair down there turns gray and scraggly, I kid you not. All these hairs grow alarmingly fast and require constant attention, lest you become that guy with a bunny paw sticking out of his ear. Their eradication is a battle men wage stoically and silently throughout the second half of their lives.
And, as with any battle, there are casualties. So one day, I found a great nose hair trimmer in the As Advertised On TV aisle at CVS. It looks like and operates like a miniature hedge trimmer. It’s virtually impossible to cut yourself but mows down the hair. Yesterday I was trimming ear, nose, and eyebrow hairs after a shower.
I was so happy with the results that I decided to try it on my nether regions too. It worked great! Soon I had gone a bit overboard and pretty much shaved everything. I liked the new look, but there was a little spot in the most sensitive area. I positioned a make-up mirror on the bathroom floor and laid down spread eagle, knees up, so I could see and trim everything well.
Where once just a few wispy hairs prevailed, unbeknownst to me a virtual forest had arisen! Trusty new nose hair trimmer in hand, I prepared for battle. Suddenly, my butt hairs wrapped around the trimmer blade like Rapunzel using a superheated curling iron, pulling the device tight against my skin and jamming the blade. The hairs were being ripped from my flesh and the pain was excruciating.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t remove the trimmer. Wiggling it tugged the hairs more; restarting it was a double down that I lost—the hairs were wound even tighter against the blade. I frog walked to my bedroom, one hand holding the trimmer tied between my butt cheeks, and searched for my cuticle scissors. No luck. I did, however, find a carpet knife.
Unbearable pain breeds desperation. Back on the bathroom floor, I tried in vain to cut myself free, nicking the tenderest of flesh twice and drawing the first blood of battle. I was making little progress, and it was time to make the ultimate sacrifice. After a suitable prayer, I gripped tight on the trimmer and committed reverse hara-kiri, Brazilian wax style, ripping off the trimmer blade along with its hair trap.
Blinding pain left me curled fetal, hyperventilating, while blood slowly trickled down my butt. I decided to share this and expose life’s cruel secret in the best interest of mankind, that others may avoid falling prey to the technological wonders of As Seen on TV hair removal tools. Young men, I beg of you to heed my warning. Do not go gentle into that good night.