Manscaping

[a note: I am bored with this blog. I am going to try and be more entertaining in order to maintain my own interest. Sorry if this is too crude for your taste. I hear Martha Stewart's website is rather wholesome, if you prefer.]

Have you ever spaced out in the shower, and in the middle of happily scrubbing your pits, realized you were using shampoo? I mean, I guess it works for that, armpits are hairy, shampoo is for hair. But still, the shampoo was meant for my head.

I had wanted to use “dark temptation” scented Axe for my armpits, a foul smelling body wash with a vaguely racist name that Jess had given me after buying a two-pack. But I was so busy spacing out about something, that the shampoo did not reach its intended destination.

Transitioning has kind of been like that so far. One moment you’re naked facebooking and the next you’re realizing your pubes are in an entirely different configuration than when you last paid any attention to them.

Whoever thought being a boy would require more maintenance? Staying on top of this body hair is seriously time consuming. And the worst part is I can’t even see most of it. Rewind three days—roommate Kira returns from San Francisco with a new tattoo on her shoulder. Tipsy and face down on the couch, she asks roommate Elissa and I if someone could wash the fresh inky wound for her. Being the queasy and vaguely insensitive boy I am, I hollered (without looking up from my laptop) “ANTI-DIBS. DO NOT WANT.” Elissa, being the saintly and iron stomached girl she is, volunteered.

Let’s just have a moment for how poorly constructed humans are, from an evolutionary standpoint. We have huge portions of our bodies we can’t see or touch. Which I’m guessing is why we live in packs and such. Clearly I was meant to be an anthropologist.

Anyway, Kira seemed to understand my desire to be useless to her and let it go without much sass. Which brings us to yesterday. As of late, my butt has been a site of all sorts of surprising and overwhelming, untamable hair growth. Which is… something I am capable of…. detecting without… assistance. I’ll leave it at that. But, the area above my butt crack (i.e. the tramp-stamp department) is a mystery to me. I turn and twist and stretch, but the lighting in the hallway sucks and the medicine cabinet’s mirror in the bathroom is too high and far away to really see if anything’s sprouting in that region. There was only option left.

Me: “Kiraaaaaaaaaaaaaa.”

Kira: “what.”

Me: “I have a weird favor to ask.”

Kira: “ooooookayyyy…”

Me: “will you look and see if I have new back hair?”

Kira: “…”

God bless you, Kira, for not dwelling on my failure to wash your tattoo. After that long, awful pause, she responded with a resilient “Sure!” and followed me into our well-lit kitchen to look. To be fair, I’m sure Elissa would’ve been equally helpful had she been home.

Also, as it turns out, yes, I do have new back hair. And it’s only going to get worse.