We start our lives as smooth as my grandson's dimpled tuckus. We are pristine and flawless. As men, in our teens the sprinkling of hair begins to emerge and we consider ourselves now fit to be called a man. We pick up that razor for the first time and the transformation begins.
Now, I come from a rather hairy clan, although we don't feel the need to shave our backs. We have just enough manly mop to be masculine, debonair and handsome all at once. In the seventies, manly chest hair was it vogue. Yes, we were stylin'. Some of us could even get by with the seventies moustache. One of us still has it. (You know, the one that makes you look like a porn star). But, back then it was cool. I think only Tom Selleck can pull that one off now.
Then things changed. The population started growing hairless. Less and less men were seen with hair dappled across their chests. Then women began wanting that baby smoothness and the metrosexual began to evolve. But what about the rest of us?
We, simply grow older. We evolve with the times and stay combed, brushed and shaven. My personal lineage has always maintained a clean and neat appearance. It is something we have always had. Then, it happens.
As I slipped in front of the mirror the other night, a big hairy fur ball looked back. I had begun sprouting wild eyebrows. You know the kind, like a tamer version of Andy Rooney. I sighed, and three feet of nose hair blew in the wind. As I gasped and turned my head, I saw enough hair popping from my ears that I thought Greg Brady had moved in. My only saving grace was that it was white and couldn't be seen from afar. Hair was growing from places God never intended.
It was then I realized every man's shaking fear; I had become Abe Vigoda!