By
Mark Lonergan
, Brandeis University
First Step
It was a hot, sunny day and there I was in my car, scratching at my upper body like a madman: my chest, my stomach, my shoulders, my back (though only when driving conditions were safe enough for me to contort my arms like the bodhidharma I long to be). All were burning and chafing against the soft cotton fabric of my shirt.
Why?
Because I had just shaved my upper body. That’s right, I occasionally practice shaving below the neck. No, I didn’t have some major athletic competition coming up. Nor am I a bulging Adonis whose mesomorphic form threatens to burst through his clothes. I am just one hairy SOB.
At eleven I was teased about my fledgling mustache. At fourteen I had more hair on my chest than most seventeen-year-olds. At eighteen I had more hair on my back than most fifty-year-olds. I was a silver-back-to-be in a time when body hair was becoming, shall we say, less than en vogue.
Here I am five years later and I’ve given in to society’s pressures. Occasionally I get sick of being that guy who can’t wear a shirt with a loose-fitting neck for fear that my fur will start rumors of evolutionary offshoots and alien hybridization plans. I’m willing to sacrifice what was once a badge of virility in order to satisfy the culturati. In fact, I revel in it.
I just wish the procedure weren’t so damn hard.
