I distinctly remember starting college and listening to many of the guys on my dorm floor talking about their weekend conquests. And for once, these people weren’t making it up. They really were doing the deed, and a couple of them mentioned how the girls loved their chest hair. I didn’t have any. None. Zip. Zilch. I didn’t have any girls either, which I’m totally fine with, but I wanted chest hair. I probably went to bed for the next 3 years each night putting a word in with a higher power to grant me chest hair. That’s how much I wanted some.
Finally, around the age of 21, a few hairs appeared on my smooth chest. I probably walked around with a HUGE grin on my face for a week, which people interpreted as my having gotten away with some truly evil. Because, if I’m honest, I could be a bit of a shit back then.
My husband, when I started dating him, informed me he would most likely have more chest hair than I sported. It’s one of the few times he felt the gweilo half of his genes would work in his favor. The Asian genes remained dominant, but they’d allow the white genes to gift him with chest hair. Yes, that’s how his brain works. No, his chest hair never arrived. His brother, however? Minor Yeti.
But here’s the problem. I stopped asking for chest hair when I started getting some. What I ended up getting, I’m very happy with. I’m not a Yeti, but I have a nice, soft covering. The hair, not the gut. The gut is actually solid, but the hair acts as soft padding on the gut. Anyway, the higher power whose in-box my requests made it to is apparently older than dirt, mildly senile, and has tenure. Now, every so often, this entity has a brain fart, remembers my name and a request for hair, and throws some my way.
This entity has shitty aim on top of it.
I brush my teeth every night before bed, and make sure nothing else on my face is amiss. That’s why I love, LOVE waking up the next morning, looking into the mirror and discovering a 3 fucking inch hair has grown out of my ear overnight. And that little bastard HURTS when I yank it out. We’re talking roots making a run for my brain.
Does your nose ever itch, and you figure it’s an allergy or a momentary twitch? Mine used to be. Now they’re little itchy gifts from the aforementioned deity with tenure who thinks I have a need for long nose hairs, and who remains stumped that I trim those little bastards back every chance I get.
Here’s what else I don’t get. My metabolism slowed down. Why? So the metabolism that controls back hair can speed up into overdrive? The extended length back hair trimmed now shares a spot next to the nose hair trimmer that doubles as my ear hair trimmer. Companies are making money off of me, and my provider damn well better not be selling my browsing history to those businesses.
And I know, I KNOW, the moment I bitch and yell out for the madness to end, the deity more ancient than dirt is going to have a new memory override the old one, and I’ll lose all my fucking hair.
Do any of you have any little pet peeves about this thing called aging?