It’s nice to take a few days off from all ambition. A moment where we can forget about dreams, needs, love, and personal grooming. With each passing day I start to resemble a psychotic uni- bomber. Random hairs from unfamiliar places start to mat from the mixture of city soot and alcohol sweats. The lovely aroma from my rotting body is starting to stew like a 48 hour pot roast. Lunch is ready, Grandma! What did you bring to the stench picnic? Oh, fantastic! That’s a lovely colostomy bag. Well, sit your old, raggedy bones down, Grandma, because it’s time to Start Up The Generator!
“Billy. I have a surprise for you. Come into the bedroom.” “What is it, babe.” “I went to the beauty salon to get a wax. Guess what I got?” “You got a Brazilian?” “Almost. This one’s called “The Jon Bennet.” They don’t temporarily remove all the hair, but they make it disappear forever!”
The trials and tribulations of the unwanted follicle. How did it become this ridiculous? I understand the sculpting of the dead that grows from our cranium. It’s part of “Team First Impression.” Plus, It’s how we advertise that we are the best sheep in a land of bleating. If you want to be included in, say, “The Jewish American Princess Club”, you better call Antwan, your gay, black hairdresser for the latest, but still acceptable, hair do-do. So grab your keys to your Beemer, and don’t forget your Xanax. After two hours in Antwan’s chair, you will all look essentially the same. Just like you once looked to Hitler. “No, sweetie. This is not a good style to wear. This is much too long for the ovens, I mean for the heat treatment. What you need is a style I call “The Boy/Girl.” Because who gives a fuck what you look like!” Unfortunately for the world, Hitler’s “German Perm and Cut” was not a rousing success.
Now we not only worry about the head of hair, but every other part of your body has to be concerned. For example: “Hey! Welcome back to Lust Line. We are talking to Winona in Wyoming. So, Winona, you are concerned with unwanted hair, right?” “Yes.” “Do you have hair on your upper lip?” “Yes.” “You are a woman, right?” “Yes.” “Do you smile much, Winona?” “No.” “You wouldn’t happen to be a lesbian?” “Yes.” “Well then you’re fine! Grow that shit like a hippie on Rogaine! All right! Next caller!”
For most women, hair is as unwanted as a carnie boyfriend. Crotch whiskers are not sexy and who needs a muffroom growing from their forbidden forest? The hair down there needs to be a representation of how tart your sexual hair pie preferences are. For instance, if we were to dribble off your Bobby Brooks and saw you liked a uniform peach fuzz trim, we would assume you are sexually conservative and you are not going to ask us to shit on you and your welding mask. Sporting a “Flame-hawk?” Perhaps you might want us to flip you over while we lube or penis with jalapeno juice until it hurt so good. If we notice no hair at all, we would just assume you were raped when you were a pre-teen and would cover you in quart of liquid offspring. Fucking a woman who tries to replicate an eleven year old’s vagina is both sad and disgusting. But the sexual green light that goes off when we notice that scorched earth, well, you might as well start calling us Daddy Nine Fingers. That leaves one finger for us to give a thumbs up to our beloved ma. “Don’t worry, Ma! This bloody scarecrow will never run one of our plows!” Thanks, John Cougar! I wish I could go to your camp of melons.
For some cultures, the pursued clearing has been written in the ancient rule books. For example: In the Philippines, if you want to be part of a decent and moral society, you don’t bring even a tweezer to your secret garden. Which I like to call “Mom Style.” Any woman who trims the short and curlies is considered a felatious, loose woman. Apparently, there is no grey area when dealing with matters of the pink. “Did you see the crotch bulge of the lovely Nikita? That’s a woman I could be proud in asking her hand in marriage.” “Keanu. That’s not a girl. That’s a fuckin’ dog.” “It is?! Well, then let’s eat that furry bitch after we make a delicious gravy from its blood!” Yeah, I’m a quarter Filipino, but no blood for me, thanks. BTW, is that a pube on my pork belly? Great. Way to prioritize, Manny.
Lately, even the guys have taken a liking to the hair genocide. We shave beard chin straps onto our face while we use frikin’ lasers to remove our nipple hair permanently. We shape our eyebrows like some Italian Sasquatch while we trim our crotched to resemble a teenage Vietnamese transvestite. Mostly, men trim away the shrubs to give their little guy a longer appearance. Plus, most women will not place your piss top cock in their mouths unless you present it in a good, clean Christian way like some militant Marine with an incredibly starched hat. Unless you’re a gay man, of course. because gay men walk around like baby birds in the rain forest swallowing bugs and leaves and anything that will fit down their mighty throats. Which I find both admirable and sad. Keep trying, little Billy! Someone, somewhere will eventually love you for more than your cum sponge of a body.
So, no longer does the evil serpent lie in the tall grass awaiting its next furry meal. No longer do we accept our lovers short, soft baby hair that grows on the back of her swan-like neck. No longer do we walk through cold winter nights comforted by the thin layer of insulation that grows down our long, slender legs. AND, no longer do we stand behind grizzled, manly men as they protect our families like a wolverine that’s been backed into a corner. We thumb our noses at Darwin with our surgeons kits filled with razors, scissors, tweezers, and napalm like creams. We have created a perfectly exposed specimen for the world’s carnivores to have a go at. Now, if you will please excuse me, I have to go lay out in the sun. Where is my SPF 150?