Hair Today

In homage to that hilarious scene from The 40 Year Old Virgin - I thought I'd share my experience.

If it weren't for the disturbing and bizarre things that happen to me on a regular basis, it's unlikely I'd be able to keep this Boneman thing going. Fortunately my life continues to supply me with plenty of disaster and embarrassment. Knock on wood. Take for example, my wife's recent birthday. Out of pure survival instinct, I usually spend as much money on her birthday gift as I can get my hands on--but this year I noticed something she really needed. Something cheap. She needed a new purse. Her old one was hammered and as it turned out you can pick up a pretty decent looking new purse for about 20 bucks. I could've spent more, but the coolest one was only 20 bucks. "Could I possibly get away with this?" I wondered standing there in the aisle at Target. "Are such things 'possible?'"

Anyway I decided it was worth a shot so I wrapped it up, lit the candles, sang the song, and the most unbelievable thing happened--she unwraps the purse takes a good look at it, looks me straight in the eyes and says "it's nice--I like it." Quite frankly I was struck dumb. My wife has never bothered to disguise her disappointment with pretty much every aspect of our marriage--so this has to be some kind of miracle. "I should be videotaping this," was all I could think. As the afternoon wore on I decided that even though the purse still appeared to be a hit, I'd better cement the deal and throw her a nice night out. Thus, I asked what she might like to do. As you'll soon learn, this was a bad thing to ask.

My wife works as a beautician and hairstylist, and has always had something of an unnatural aversion to body hair. Hates it with a passion. Thinks it's a sure-fire sign of questionable hygiene. In fact, ever since I've known her she's been after me to let her wax off my chest hair. I've never understood her obsession--it's not like I'm unpresentably hairy. Maybe a few faint whisps on my back, but no shoulder pubes, and I've always been rather attached to the downy soft quilting of hair that adorns my chest. It's like spun silk--an ordinary woman could kill a day playing with my boobs.

Still she refuses to see the light and her desire to deforest the Boneman is like a fire burning. So, as you might have guessed, when I asked my fateful question it was her birthday request to uproot every hair from my neck to my bikini line. Yes, I foolishly agreed to subject myself to her perverse designs, but in my defense, this was only after losing two-out-of-three rounds of rock/paper/scissors.

I got through the back and arms part without all that much agony, and it wasn't until I laid before her on the kitchen table "chest exposed" that I fully understood the true scope of my misjudgment. As as she set about her evil purposes even my children were becoming concerned. I remember my four-year-old ruefully shaking her head and confiding quietly, "she's gonna go Medieval on your ass, Daddy."

Before I proceed with this tale, I'd just like to make this little public service announcement: Do not let anyone yank out all your chest hair. Just say no. It hurts really bad. Really really bad. Say if you had a severe sunburn that needed medical attention and instead of being anointed gently with aloe vera, you were unmercifully flogged with a boat oar. Don't let this happen to you. The waxing process is only slightly less insane than trying to remove carpet with a shovel."

By the time I'd realized what a barbaric procedure I was undergoing, it was too late. There's no turning back at the half-way mark. First the hot wax is generously applied in to the doomed flesh, and after the cloth strips are firmly applied comes a terrible countdown. One, two, three, and then "yeeoow" a violent jerk like someone trying to rope-start a lawn mower. Oh my Godzilla the hate. A body doesn't take kindly to having all it's hair ripped out by the root, and for the next week I suffered. It looked and felt like
I'd been beaten about the chest and stomach with a golf shoe on fire. Accompanied by some sort of compensatory tightening of the scrotum. It's all very traumatic.

I probably would have made it through like a real man had not a particularly zealous yank also removed my left nipple. I pretty much lost my cool when I saw it stretch away like a pepperoni off a pizza. This isn't something you ever want to see unless you're sedated out of your gourd. Still I'm trying to stay optimistic, my wife assures me that with enough Neosporin it might grow back.

The aftermath of the operation is every bit as ugly as the waxing itself. It's like recovering from a bad car accident. I literally ached for days and the impulse to gently caress my inflamed bosom became impossible to resist. The relief this offered was something I couldn't help but indulge no matter where I was. I should confess that public self-fondling is generally frowned upon, but I figured "screw 'em." My hand would find it's way under my shirt and shamelessly begin cupping my smooth new boobs in my cool and soothing palms. It just felt too good--let them talk.

As far as how the poor old Boneman looks stripped to the pink--I have to boast that if I throw my shoulders back and flex a little bit it doesn't look too shabby. But if I'm just sitting regular with my slump-shouldered posture--I look like some kind of aging hermaphrodite. She also decided to leave me a little goatee beneath my belly-button in the shape of an arrow pointing down toward the promised land--a place, I'm proud to report, where my hair still holds sway.

Perhaps my children were the most traumatized by the harrowing experience. I think they were afraid their father wasn't going to make it off the table, and amid the howling and cursing, my daughter quietly offered the following sage advice. I don't know where she got it from--I'm pretty sure she hasn't seen Dumb and Dumber, but she leaned in close and whispered, "Dad--find a happy place." Sound advise, folks--I recommend you do the same.