- May 18, 2001
- 7,860
- 352
- 126
When I was in my teens and twenties, I probably would have believed the myth that growing older was going to be miserable and depressing. Our all-seeing, all-powerful, and all-knowing Savior and Lord Television tells us that by the time we?re in our mid 30?s, we should expect to become weak, irrelevant, stupid, bald, impotent, tragically uncool, and flabby. We all might as well settle in for the dismal ride through a long decline, buy our cemetery plots, and dutifully accept our future roles as underground box stuffers. Ok, whatever. I?m 38, and I?ve never felt better. I pride myself in how I?ve kept myself in shape. I?m stronger, faster, and more virile than at any other point in my life. That youngster that I once was didn?t know crap.
But there are still some signs of my advancing years that I can?t deny. My head is showing a few flecks of grey here and there. Up until the past few years I could skip a single meal and lose twelve pounds, much to the <cough> delight <cough> of my ever-dieting wife. In particular, though, I?ve never ever had any issues with unwanted body hair. I?ve always eagerly looked forward to the day when I would be old enough to grow a nice rug on my chest. I?ve recently come to the realization that that specific dream has slammed into a telephone pole at high speed, tumbled off a nearby cliff, and landed in flames in the rocky coastline far below. Have no doubt ? my body hair is suddenly growing at an accelerated pace, just not in the areas where it would be beneficial. Specifically, trimming nose hair has gone from being a quick trim once every couple of months to being a nearly daily struggle to maintain control of my face.
Long ago when I first got married, my wife produced a pair of grooming scissors that she gave to me for this ever-so-lovely task. I don?t know where she got them, but they are a fine example of cutting-edge colonial American technology. While they are petite and the blades fit comfortably in the nostril, they have some major problems: they are so tiny that my big Caucasian fingers barely penetrate the finger holes. Also, they are about as sharp as George Bush?s wit, and are as good at cutting nasal hair as a blunt hatchet. I have to give them some credit for one aspect in which they are superior in every way: they are great for ripping out hairy chunks of nasal flesh. The end result is that they extract very little hair, a whole lot of skin, even more blood, and buckets full of harsh language.
So you can imagine my consternation when my little tool went missing a while back. I don?t know where it went, but I was nearing the crisis point where my coworkers had asked my boss to have that discrete little talk with me. I had reached the advanced stage where breathing was becoming more difficult. People were complimenting me on my full, bushy moustache. I was beginning to think I could knit it into a nice cardigan. Action had to be taken. My sweet little wife (who I always assumed used the scissors from time to time as well) suggested that I run to the WalMart and buy another pair. Never! As I?ve proven time and again, I?m as cheap a tightwad as they come. The scissors were still in the house, and they would be found, come Hell or high water!
A couple of days passed. The wife was out of town with her parents, so I had plenty of time to resume the search nag-free. I was rummaging around the bathroom vanity?s drawers for at least the 23rd time, when I stumbled across something interesting. In one of the wife?s drawers was a compact battery operated device that looked like a streamlined, sexy miracle of nose-hair-trimming Nirvana. Now the mystery of the woman?s perfectly coiffured nose hair was at long last solved ? she was quietly allowing me to butcher myself with a rusty instrument of torture, while she was enjoying all the modern pain-free benefits of science! I quickly flicked on the device and gently inserted the pointy end into first one nostril, then the other. With a high-pitched buzzing sound, I soon had that professional Hollywood-groomed look that all the stars enjoy, and my self esteem rose several points.
Later, when asked about her little toy, she made some mumbling excuses. Not really wanting to talk about it, and being a master of quick diversion, she skillfully changed the subject by stripping down to nothing and throwing her naked body at me. My inner caveman never had a chance.
After 14 years of marriage, it looks like I?m still stuck powerless at the bottom of the pecking order.
But there are still some signs of my advancing years that I can?t deny. My head is showing a few flecks of grey here and there. Up until the past few years I could skip a single meal and lose twelve pounds, much to the <cough> delight <cough> of my ever-dieting wife. In particular, though, I?ve never ever had any issues with unwanted body hair. I?ve always eagerly looked forward to the day when I would be old enough to grow a nice rug on my chest. I?ve recently come to the realization that that specific dream has slammed into a telephone pole at high speed, tumbled off a nearby cliff, and landed in flames in the rocky coastline far below. Have no doubt ? my body hair is suddenly growing at an accelerated pace, just not in the areas where it would be beneficial. Specifically, trimming nose hair has gone from being a quick trim once every couple of months to being a nearly daily struggle to maintain control of my face.
Long ago when I first got married, my wife produced a pair of grooming scissors that she gave to me for this ever-so-lovely task. I don?t know where she got them, but they are a fine example of cutting-edge colonial American technology. While they are petite and the blades fit comfortably in the nostril, they have some major problems: they are so tiny that my big Caucasian fingers barely penetrate the finger holes. Also, they are about as sharp as George Bush?s wit, and are as good at cutting nasal hair as a blunt hatchet. I have to give them some credit for one aspect in which they are superior in every way: they are great for ripping out hairy chunks of nasal flesh. The end result is that they extract very little hair, a whole lot of skin, even more blood, and buckets full of harsh language.
So you can imagine my consternation when my little tool went missing a while back. I don?t know where it went, but I was nearing the crisis point where my coworkers had asked my boss to have that discrete little talk with me. I had reached the advanced stage where breathing was becoming more difficult. People were complimenting me on my full, bushy moustache. I was beginning to think I could knit it into a nice cardigan. Action had to be taken. My sweet little wife (who I always assumed used the scissors from time to time as well) suggested that I run to the WalMart and buy another pair. Never! As I?ve proven time and again, I?m as cheap a tightwad as they come. The scissors were still in the house, and they would be found, come Hell or high water!
A couple of days passed. The wife was out of town with her parents, so I had plenty of time to resume the search nag-free. I was rummaging around the bathroom vanity?s drawers for at least the 23rd time, when I stumbled across something interesting. In one of the wife?s drawers was a compact battery operated device that looked like a streamlined, sexy miracle of nose-hair-trimming Nirvana. Now the mystery of the woman?s perfectly coiffured nose hair was at long last solved ? she was quietly allowing me to butcher myself with a rusty instrument of torture, while she was enjoying all the modern pain-free benefits of science! I quickly flicked on the device and gently inserted the pointy end into first one nostril, then the other. With a high-pitched buzzing sound, I soon had that professional Hollywood-groomed look that all the stars enjoy, and my self esteem rose several points.
Later, when asked about her little toy, she made some mumbling excuses. Not really wanting to talk about it, and being a master of quick diversion, she skillfully changed the subject by stripping down to nothing and throwing her naked body at me. My inner caveman never had a chance.
After 14 years of marriage, it looks like I?m still stuck powerless at the bottom of the pecking order.
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