10/22/14

Body Hair . . .

Seriously, though. Without trimming . . . 
You would not know it by looking at the top of my head (thank you maternal genetics, stress, poor diet, and apathy) but I'm one of millions of American men who suffer from a condition called "phukkinhairybahdee".

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.
  1. 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.
  2. Isolate yourself like Big and Little Edie (if you don't get that reference, get yourself Google and some time to be horrified).
  3. Find a society that believes men should completely cover their bodies from head to toe (none exist but keep looking).
  4. 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 
  5. Do what I do and get yourself some dog grooming clippers.
Now I know . . . I know. Human clippers, like those issued on a stylists first day at Great Clips should suffice? Sure . . . until the third week of using them when they are not so much cutting the hair as yanking it out from the root and then pouring ketchup and rock salt in the vulnerable follicle left behind. Trust me - go DOG clippers (available online and at most pet retailers nationwide).

Got your dog clippers? Here is what comes next . . . lower the blinds in your bathroom (no one in the neighborhood needs to see this), close and lock the door (if someone walks - like your mother might have while you made passionate love to tube socks as a teen - you will never be able to make eye contact with them again), and turn on some music. No, no. Not for mood or romance (at no time and I suggesting flame with this hair floating around either) but for noise. To cover the "bzzzzzz" of the clippers and the gentle sobbing of a man trying to find his skin like so much buried treasure. Strip ALL the way down. 

Take out the ear and nose hair first. Get in there. Really work from the elbow! No guards needed - just take it down.

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. 

You've never been more disgusted by me and the way I look and the things I say, have you? Don't answer that.

You'll notice I left off one part of the body . . . nope . . . just giving separate instructions for your most cherished posession. Put the "two" guard on (to minimize potential nicks) and go ahead and trim the bushes, hedges, around the bottom of the mail box stand, and up and down the sidewalks, too. I'm going to let you in on a little secret . . . that hair is the most revolting hair the body makes and keeps . . . it needs to be kept at bay. Your lover will not complain.

Once you've finished this regiment (often taking 15 - 20 minutes to do the "right" way (but much more and your clippers will be too hot to handle so don't eff around)), turn on your Shop-Vac (I forgot to tell you to put it in the bathroom before you started grooming) and get up as much of your crime scene evidence as you can. Take a shower. Scrub. Clean the drain trap 100x or so. Dry off.

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.

Enjoy the next two weeks of your life as though you were one of the lucky ones . . . the men who aren't proof of evolution and all its faults and errors.