Chest hair symbolizes “masculinity” according to some horribly vapid article I skimmed on the Internet.
It can be caused by drinking whiskey, eating sardines and spreading maple syrup on your chest, according to a variety of Internet answer sites I perused. Apart from the maple syrup, I can’t imagine why I now sport three chest hairs.
Some of you may be unsurprised because some of you think I’m a dude. It’s likely my compulsion to take incessantly about my penis that has led to that incorrect assumption.
My chest hair was pointed out to me a few weeks ago. I finally wore something other than my usual ensemble:
The shirt, while it did nothing to accentuate my grape-sized chest, it highlighted the three chest hairs in all their glory.
Unlike these photos:
The following day, the friend asked me if I got rid of my hair. I hadn’t. I was fearful that if I shaved, I would wake up the next morning looking like the love child of Alec Baldwin and Robin Williams. Also, I’m really lazy.
Is it a sign of aging? Aging is such a wonderous thing–what with the depletion of all energy, the realization that your life is a series of inconsequential failures, and the inability to extract oneself from furniture without grunting like a tennis player. It was upon turning 35 that a wirey hair began growing out of my neck. My darling child never fails to pipe up about “mommy’s mustache.”
I’m still not sure what to do with them. Bleach them? Pluck them? Instagram them?
I am at a loss. Luckily unitard season begins in a few weeks.