It happened again. As is so often the case, it starts out innocently enough. It's usually a Sunday morning and as I appraise my naked image in the bathroom mirror I find myself thinking, "Oh, my chest could use a little trimming." No big deal, right? Pull out the trimmer and set the guide to 4 (or 3, if I'm feeling the call of friskily sleek!) (one can't rightly gambol and frolic with 4 length chest hair, darlin') and voile', cleaned up with minimal time wasted. Only sometimes it don't go down like that, Homes. While there's no apparent demarcation for when things devolve, I start out with a minor trim in mind and the next thing I know I am Ethan Hawke in the opening scene of Gattaca. (Oh, and Ethan, you married UP, bubbela, so when you toss that away, you look even more stupid than your facial hair suggests.) Anyway, in a blink the vanity is strewn with the accoutrement of my cleansing/polishing/shearing/debriding. These implements won't amend genetic imperfection, as Ethan's Vincent Freeman discovered, so what exactly am I trying to hide/remove? Is that even a question I should ask myself, or should I just revel in my hydrated, dermabraded bad self? And while you're pondering that, how about grabbing that sea salt scrub and doing my back?
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Makes any boy feel as pretty as princes
It happened again. As is so often the case, it starts out innocently enough. It's usually a Sunday morning and as I appraise my naked image in the bathroom mirror I find myself thinking, "Oh, my chest could use a little trimming." No big deal, right? Pull out the trimmer and set the guide to 4 (or 3, if I'm feeling the call of friskily sleek!) (one can't rightly gambol and frolic with 4 length chest hair, darlin') and voile', cleaned up with minimal time wasted. Only sometimes it don't go down like that, Homes. While there's no apparent demarcation for when things devolve, I start out with a minor trim in mind and the next thing I know I am Ethan Hawke in the opening scene of Gattaca. (Oh, and Ethan, you married UP, bubbela, so when you toss that away, you look even more stupid than your facial hair suggests.) Anyway, in a blink the vanity is strewn with the accoutrement of my cleansing/polishing/shearing/debriding. These implements won't amend genetic imperfection, as Ethan's Vincent Freeman discovered, so what exactly am I trying to hide/remove? Is that even a question I should ask myself, or should I just revel in my hydrated, dermabraded bad self? And while you're pondering that, how about grabbing that sea salt scrub and doing my back?
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6 comments:
Is it okay that these kinds of posts always make me laugh? I swear I'm laughing at the way you cope with your insecurities, not the insecurities themselves.
Is that what's happening? See, my coping skills are so poor that I didn't even recognize this as a manifestation of my insecurities.
Wait. Is it also my insecurities that have me with three pairs of slippers, so my pajamas always coordinate, or is that something else?
And of course it's OK to laugh. ;-)
What's the guide level for fuzz-less peaches in October? I'm just curious. BTW: I trim my torso fur the old-fashioned way: scissors and a comb.
My left nipple is just fine now that the random bleeding stopped.
Oh, the Cubans are still unsheared. I didn't even get to Manny and Esteban because I've always figured I should start with what's showing most often. I guess it's been since the late 80s since that entailed working from the South Pole up.
Ah, bloody nipple. We've all been there, haven't we? I think the scissor and comb method lends itself to a more naturale result, but sometimes I like the hair on my torso to pose a question about the pitfalls of a purely mechanistic approach to an organic and unknowable world.
Ah, yes. I totally feel what you're suggesting via mechanistic pitfalls. I find that manscaping my ball hair compares to Camus' classic Myth of Sisyphus; there is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor with no reward in sight.
Shaving pubes is like, way metaphorical.
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