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?