I did something foolish recently: I jumped on board this manscaping train. Chalk it up to being very creative but without any ideas, and vanity. After a few stops and starts and nicks and cuts, I wanted off that ride.
Manscaping. I think the real term should be ‘manscraping‘ because it scraped the hell outta me. I cut myself to shreds. The next day after the experiment I realized the intelligent thing to do would be to let my hair grow back and save the injuries for when I manicure my more expensive property…namely, the hedges around the house.
But I jumped onboard: Trimmed my goatee, got the happening haircut, and did away with the chest hairs. Looked good, and felt like crap when the hairs started growing back.
I did the chest hair removal using the electric shaver first: that, to remove the bear hair. Then I lathered up, shaved away the cub hairs and viola…I was a bare chested boy once again. Within a few minutes, appreciation of my artistry gave way to a more somber realization: “I frickin’ shaved away my manliness!”
A splash of Sea Breeze gave me a new reason to regret the shearing. Burning in every previously virgin pore, I swore, “No more.”
After some reflection…and two Advil later, I realized it was a far better idea to have done it myself, than to have myself done in by a sadistic wax-on-tear-off the hair removal artist like the one featured in the 40-Year-Old Virgin.
Three nights later while lying in bed, my wife was reading as I was trying to find a position where the itchiness would stop.
“Whatsa matter, honey?” she asked.
“From the hairs growing back.”
“It’ll go away.”
“No I don’t want them to go away. I want them to grow back.”
“Nobody said you had to shave.”
“I thought you would have liked it.”
“Maybe if I was a pre-teen and wanted to go out with a pre-teen boy. I married you…a man with hair.”
“Still, it itches.”
She put the book aside and leaned towards me. Propped up on her elbow, she drew small, delicate circles on my chest. “As I said, I love you no matter what. But hon? Man up.” She turned away, and turned out the light.
After a pause: “I did man up and now look…it’s like I went a few rounds with Zorro.”
The only sound after that was the scratching of my chest.
So all of this cropping and chopping, nicking and picking, slicing and dicing just to be contemporary and hip? There has to be a better way. I know people spend time, energy and money in trying to come up with lotions and potions, but I’m not going to lose anymore hair worrying about it.
I’m gonna let the shaved hairs grow back, and hide the nicks and cuts of my manscaping mistakes.
I’m simply not cut out to be that kind of man.