|Seriously, though. Without trimming . . .|
While not as well known as the flu, diabeeeeetis (as the oatmeal guy would have it said), erectile disfunction (or "ED" as that vaguely-attractive, overly-breathy Lauren-Hutton-ish minx would have you identify it) or ebola (which is so far removed from a real concern it makes me meshugganah (come to read the rants, stay to learn the Yiddish)) . . . this condition is a merciless killer of self-esteem, intimacy, and the ability to wear sheer, form fitting clothing with confidence.
Phukkinghairybahdee will lessen the quality of life for as many as 1:3 American men, 80% of Greek men who work in food service, and 100% of all men born in the former (and perhaps again to be collected) satellites of the Soviet Union during their lifetimes.
Yet the villain has no natural predator and modern medicine has all but ignored the plight of the victims. Sure, sure. You can go get waxed, lasered, and professionally shorn by professionals with a soft touch and a strong, intestinal fortitude but that is costly, temporary, and embarrassing. If I am being honest I think more men should be upset hair removal is not covered by Hobby Lobby insurance.
So what are we men to do? There are options out there, fellow sufferers.
- Go back in time to the late-60s/mid-70s when body hair signaled virility and your gold chains and lover's fingers could get lost in your thick, bathmat of chest hair with confidence.
- Isolate yourself like Big and Little Edie (if you don't get that reference, get yourself Google and some time to be horrified).
- Find a society that believes men should completely cover their bodies from head to toe (none exist but keep looking).
- Find a mate that truly loves you for who you are and will accept your bushy, sweat and funk holding body, and live a life of personal happiness surrounded by a deep, wide moat of social and professional shame
- Do what I do and get yourself some dog grooming clippers.
Put the "one" guard on the blades. Take back your eyebrows. Seriously - you look like a less-alive Morley Saefer.
Then - just like Zoe's last line at the end of House of Card's first season - "Go to town, bitch." Take it ALL out. Armpits (you don't need the sweat and hormones to pool there anyway) all the surface of your arms and even the backs of your hands and, if you are especially cursed like me . . . fingers. Then your chest and stomach. Hit your shoulders and as far down and in on your back as you can reach from the top or sides. Then do your legs and buttocks (seriously - that whole soft as a baby's butt thing is aspiration to chase) and . . . if you are (once again) cursed like me the tops of your feet and toes.
Get back in the shower. Do it again. Clean the drain trap 50x more. Dry off.
Put a nice oil or lotion all over your body (your may have nicked yourself or at least irritated parts of your skin with the clipper guards) and you'll want to treat yourself (here is a personal favorite) as a way to heal the pain - like ice cream after a Little League loss. Get dressed. Return the Shop-Vac to the back of the garage.