Shear Lunacy

You receive a lot of education in college, some of it free and not at all useful.

A floor mate of mine loved chemistry so much that he once performed an experiment in my room.

He lit a fart.

New to the wonders of internal combustion, I was awestruck.

The burst of light not only was spectacular, it also was functional, burning the stench before it took hold in the nostrils.

To me, however, this wasn’t the oddest thing about Rick.

The guy shaved — and I don’t mean just his whiskers. He took a razor to his legs, arms and chest. At least Rick had a reason. He was a collegiate swimmer trying to remove all forms of resistance.

The Michael Phelpses I see nowadays wouldn’t know a breaststroke from a chicken breast. They go smooth just for the hell of it.

I don’t get it.

A certain amount of hair, particularly beneath the front part of a shirt, is expected on a dude. Anything less simply looks unnatural.

That’s not to say all weed-eating is evil.

I made a concession in that area myself on a recent trip to the stylist, who asked if she could do my eyebrows.

Pausing to locate my man card, I thought to myself, “What the pluck.”

And with the help of tweezers and hot wax, a new me began to emerge.

This will be the extent of my makeover. No earrings are on the horizon. Manicures and pedicures will remain the domain of others.

But everyone can stand some pruning, including me.


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