2002-07-29 6:00 p.m.
I have a strange relationship with body hair. I don't mind it on other people at all. I don't care if my girlfriends don't shave their legs or their armpits, and although I prefer tame amounts of pubic hair—shaved or trimmed, please—I doubt I would ever actually request that a woman shave. I don't care one bit about the two–inch–long hair on my waiter's forearms and back or my best friend's unshaven face. But, there always lingers in my mind a quiet malaise—a murmur almost always masked by my internal monologues and constant mental machinations—a sense of dissatisfaction that I have sprouted hair on my shoulders and lower back. I am at peace with the hair in other locations of my body, but those places bother me. I don't want to be a hair farm.
There are many reasons why people dislike things about their own physical manifestations, and most of these reasons are rooted in fear. Common fears include: fear of not being understood or liked, fear of not being sexually attractive to others, and fear that people will run screaming from you, mock your grotesqueness with the people you are trying to impress at parties, burn your house down, marry your mom and convince her to disown you, embezzle your life savings and use it to bribe junkies and winos to urinate in your eyes, and then make a movie based on the true story of how atrocious, repugnant, and sexually repulsive you were before they drowned you.
I am not scared of these things, though. My dislike of back hair is purely based on aesthetics. I don't like the way I look in a baggy, powder–blue FUBU jogging suit or a XXXL Wal–Mart fat woman sweater with adorable kitten and unicorn appliqués. Similarly, even though body hair really seems at home in 'your mama is so hairy' jokes and on the backs of hulking, gay leather daddies, I personally feel that it is just not right for me. And, it appears that when my mom and dad got drunk and had perverted hippy sex on that fateful night some 27 years ago, they forgot to instruct their perverted hippy zygotes that their possible son–to–be would prefer to not have back or shoulder hair. I am not pleased about this.
In spite of this, my outlook is positive, and my shoulder and back hair have surely not prevented me from the fruits of life: success, happiness, friendship, family, and the contraction of STDs. In any case, I still want the hair gone. With this in mind, Andie—always the ever–loving, considerate model of human perfection—bought a bottle of Nair for Men for me. At first I felt wary about using this product, a strong–smelling white goop that, through a dangerous new process called 'science', physically annihilates naturally–occurring parts of one's body. But, after watching the sleek, grey plastic bottle collect dust on my bathroom shelf for two months, my reservations subsided and I decided it was time to unleash Nair for Men and its anti–hair holocaust upon my unsuspecting back and shoulders.
First I had Andie assess the situation and carefully mark the areas of depilatation (Figure 1). Then, she carefully applied the liquid holocaust to my tender, supple skin (Figure 2), making sure to abuse and deride the hair both verbally and with printed war–time propaganda.
After 15 minutes of strategic waiting, Andie lightly wiped off the vile depilatory and with it the acres of dead hair forest. It was almost too easy! And, I did not have to undergo anything involving shaving, lasers, burning, pulling, or tweezing. Using Nair for Men was as natural as making fun of retards and lowered Honda Civics with huge aftermarket spoilers and as effortless as getting beat up every day during junior high school. I asked myself, why didn't I try this miraculous product sooner? More relevant than the Bible, more effective than Anthrax, and more cost–effective than even a 14–year–old prostitute in Malaysia, Nair for Men is a life–altering success of John Holmes proportions and clearly the most useful and significant synthetic chemical since lysergic acid diethylamide-25.
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