I’ve got myself all Spic and Span to go do a gig,  Cath is giving me the final inspection, when she blurts: “Oh my God! Your eyebrows.”

 What’s up with hair?

  I mean, I get the hair on our heads thing. I get hair for beards and moustaches, armpit and leg hairs and even those hairs that adorn our seldom mentioned nether regions. (‘nether’: from the Latin meaning: the naughty bits.)

 Those all seem like pretty normal, everyday hairs.

 We as an evolving species have learned to walk upright, developed languages, learned how to swing a golf club and learned how to swear. (Those last two achievements may be connected.) We have done all these wondrous things and more, yet we still have to deal with a myriad of unsightly hairs. Topping my list are those nasty nose hairs and those tufts sprouting from our ear holes and those repugnant hairs back there that remind us of the days we once roamed about with tails.

 Even the hairs you thought you knew. I never once gave my eyebrows a second thought. They were just there. They did what eyebrows were supposed to do, assist the face in providing looks of surprise, terror, concern, joy, glee. Pretty standard eyebrow work.  For forty years they’re doing their job with no problems and then one day, whammo! These docile hairs go berserk, launching outwards in all directions. And these hairs never seem to get noticed until they’re way, way past their best before date.

 And what tortures we will endure to rid ourselves of them, shavers, scissors, creams, plucking, lasers, electrolysis and the ever popular Brazilian hot wax.

 Maybe it’s the fact that you gals deal with that child birth stuff that hardens you to better cope with the pain/pleasure of hot waxing. I know none of my buddies would be jumping to the front of that queue.

 It is much tougher for you gals. Guys seem to still have some sort of animal pride in their male hairy abilitiness. I remember how happy I was when I discovered my first chest hair. How lonely it looked adorning my massive chest. (Massive can be open to interpretation.) Even to this day I regret showing it off to Susie in grade ten science class. But that was then, this is now, because I don’t recall getting the same sense of pride when I snipped my first nostril hair. How icky are they. You imagine. Hey, Susie, catch a glimpse of this puppy!

 Hair. Stupid hair. For decades fashion has dictated to you gals that clean, smooth hairless arms and legs are the ultimate goal. The only goal! And who’s to blame? Barbie. If that uppity little ‘B’ had been a true blue, hard core authentic western doll, she’d have been much, much hairier. Barbie would have been less focused on gassing up her Vett and have spent more time promoting her Barbie’s Hair Be-Gone line of products.

 Yeah, Barbie’s to blame for all our sleepless nights.

 Long beautiful hair. Come on, sing it with me. Shining, gleaming. Hair momma, hair poppa.

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