Hair Today – Gone Tomorrow

Hair Today; Gone Tomorrow!

Challenge Accepted

An Opinionated Man issued a challenge on his HarsH ReaLiTy blog today. He wants bloggers to write in a different style than normal. You can read about the challenge here.

Challenge Accepted!


What can I say: I am hirsute. I have hair everywhere. My daughter describes me as “furry“. Harsh but fair. And a little cute. My wife asked me, one night in bed when we first started living together, if I had socks on! Embarrassing… I didn’t, now that you ask. I am hairy, it’s the way it is.

There are, however, fellow travellers of the XY genome type, who are less inclined to embrace their warm fuzzy selves. They eschew their hirsute birthright and go the way of the hot pot removal technique. They! Get! Their! Hair! Ripped! Out!

From man scraping to the “Brozillian” men are flocking, in droves, to have their skin torn from their bodies in an attempt to magically enlarge their package and, presumably, because they miss some aspect of their prepubescent boyhood.

From a NARB (No Apparent Reason B**er) to having to take cold showers afterwards (salient advice HERE), waxing has many more benefits to offer you. Oh, yeah: no horizontal aerobics for three to four days. So if you must submit to this extraordinary rendition, fellas, you know when to plan it.

But wait. because the benefit factor grows. Or regrows. Or enlarges… You work it out. If you are brave enough to have the skin of a newly plucked chook, you can talk about it with your mates, right? Wrong!  Apparently disclosing that you have been deforested is akin to letting your best mate know you had a great weekend away. With his mum! Best we don’t let that little cat out of the bag. You are certain not to need a wax down there so much as a reconstructive operation after that little man to man, bromantic chat.

Wait, it gets better for these macho masochists. Not only is there the main prize of having the lawn ripped right out of the yard; there ain’t no happy endings for you or your NARB! Just a kick in your man bag for a cool hundred. For the front. Slipping past the love sack and driving to funky town is extra! No, that’s just inside your reg grundies. to go the full Spanish inquisition; take your weeks rent. And Panadol. Or something stronger, like morphine.

And here’s a delicious irony: the prevailing trend with the ladies, bless their green credentials, is to allow the “old growth forests” of Tassie to regenerate! This is good for the environment on so many levels, not the least being less energy consumption boiling the torture pot. But, come on, I mean we blokes are pretty easily confused and this won’t help.

So I am going to keep my man-fur, my polar suit, and my money, and pride and, my NARB all for myself. Okay maybe I shouldn’t mention my NARB’s, but come on, I mean what looks tougher: A grizzly or Sunday’s lunch? Come on, ladies, what’s more appealing: a cuddly teddy or this –



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