From the Latin hirsutus which, with an Irish accent is,  “Arrr hair suit us, matey!”

And therein lies the rub or the scratch, depending on your physical point of view.  Yes I have run out of razor blades and the razor sharp wit dashing about the house could make my sagging jowls more presentable than anything offered by Gillette.

It was after I snuggled into my significant other and my five days of freedom from Jack the Ripper Razor, that a caustic look shot down at me as a nuzzled affectionately into the curvaceous being,

“Hedge hog get a razor!” and she turned away.

I peered at her, shattered.  The Human League’s melody…’don’t you want me baby….don’t you want my haaaair?’ blistered across my lips.  Rejected I curled into my pillow and then heard it. It was clear, distinct like fingernails across a screen door, cockroaches scuttling on linoleum.  Yup.  My beard was even keeping me awake!  Larry, the hairy, fairy godmother would be prickling away at my face all night unless immediate action was taken.

Dash to the 24 hr convenience store in pajamas and robe.  I was never up-market enough to have a gown just a robe.  (which I nicked.)

I quietly snuck into the house – the furry being had not been missed – and quietly cloistered myself in the bathroom and hit the light.

Oh MY GOD!! There was a sasquatch in my loo!! Hold on he’s scared… no that’s me.

I drew closer to the comb-able body in the mirror.  Was it fear and loathing or beer and bloating?  Hmm either way it was another Human League moment… ‘Don’t you want me baby, don’t you want-‘  CLICK the snap of the blade into the handle,  The safety was off.  The handle spun nimbly between my fingers.  I braced.  The whistling tune from the western High Noon drowned out the Human League.

I foamed.

OH YEAH,  I foamed again.

The details of scarifying a five day growth is about as interesting as waiting in line at the airport security. So we’ll leave that.

But what is it with hair?  Footballers (and I live with two) take their shirts off in celebration but there AIN’T no marsh growing on those chests.  Body builders with the perfect ripples and tanned dipples have less hair than there are palm trees on the desert.  Who is unnatural here?  The sasquatch singing Human League or the alien polished torsos of mega paid stars.

I am totally confused.  Supposedly flowing locks are sexy for the finer sex to run their fingers through. (Orlando Bloom, David Ginola etc spring to mind) but I thought bald men were meant to be sexy or was that just brought up to placate the ever increasing incidence of slap heads around the world.  Did it really only apply to Yule Brenner?  He would have looked so stupid with a ‘short back and sides or a pompadour in the King and I.

Hair is hair.  Does it matter if it has migrated?  I know lots of guys, well a few, who can comb their backs, guys with chest hair you have to part where the beard joins at he neck.  Doesn’t anyone appreciate the warmth and snuggliness of that?  My other half would cuddle our Great Dane without issue.  We were the same weight, same size nose, we both even drooled and had way MORE body hair but NOOOO I have to shave at 2A.M.

Gillette needs to come to the rescue of the huge percentage of male…SCARY HAIRY LARRIES.

Don’t force us to lose – it use.  Don’t abuse it, infuse it.  The hedge hog haters have to be convinced that they can participate in male combing.  Yes… back combs with attachments; a chest shaper, an ear bush curler, uni-brow liner, nose hair straightener… there is no end to the marketing possibilities.  It could be a financial windfall.

The deed is done.  I reach for my robe but it is cheap terri towel – toss it.  I slip on her silk robe ahhhh The smooth fabric touches my skin in a Zen like embrace, we are one. My cheeks her GOWN – the swans are in envy.

Snuggling back beside the other’s dune like curves, the freshness of my silken cheeks carress her and – startles her.  Well she snorted kind of and sat up.  She looked at me through bleary approving eyes.  ‘God you look twelve! I’m robbing the cradle.’  She crashed back into a pile of dreams of Yule Brenner or was it David Ginola. Whoever it was – it wasn’t me.

The cue ball was left snookered at 3AM.  The Human League rushed forward with beards like some hillbilly fallouts, ‘Don’t don’t you want me…’

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