Fair warning here. In this entry I’m bound to talk about my general pubic region. This certainly includes pubic hair, my balls, the shaft but perhaps not the head. Perhaps. If that’s a mental picture you don’t want plaguing your innermost sanctum of purity, then leave now. In all honesty, it’s probably too late. In which case I’m sorry. May God have mercy on my soul. And my balls.
I shaved the other day. Not my face. My face has been unshorn since the wedding I attended in early January. I had reason to look presentable, but now that I’ve taken up the life of a hermit I no longer have use of a neatly cultivated chin area. Squirrels love you for who you are inside. As in, the capacity of your chest cavity as a storage space for acorns. They’re vicious little fuckers and your innards will keep those acorns toasty for the winter (close to the meat). My fuzzy chin also supplies a valid nest, saving them the labour of crafting one of their own. TL;DR – Face unshaven.
My nethers, on the other hand, have seen the sheer skill of my shearing skills. That’s unremarkable in itself. It’s not the first time I’ve taken to my overgrowth with blades in an effort to clear a path. It was the first time in a while, shamefully so. No reasons why other than laziness, apathy, poor time management and lack of true incentive. All of those, though. You laugh at the suggestion of time management, but you don’t understand a) how dense the foliage was and b) how thorough I usually am. My normal method has too many steps and, much like my bush, I wanted to cut them down to a more manageable level.
Some time ago, my girlfriend and I were gonna buy a shared set of clippers purely for downstairs deforestation. It never happened. It’s been on the to do list alongside taking down the decorations from the flatwarming party I threw. Two flatmates ago. Nothing had happened and I was a little bit unsure as to what specifications I’d need out of such a device. Then last week I looked down while peeing and realised I had a veritable jewfro going on. For wailing out loud, this was too much. I grabbed my beard trimmer and contemplated.
The reason we planned to get shared shears was my own indecision. Did I want to mow my sack with the same clippers I used on my face? I was a little iffy on the concept. Somewhere along the way between indecision and laziness I realised that I only ever shaved after having a shower. I also cleaned the trimmer thoroughly after use. In short, there was no way I’d end up with dirty pubes on my face. Problem solved by my own pedantic nature.
I poised myself over the toilet bowl (easy clean up) and flicked the switch. The vicious electric buzz warned me to be careful, to go slowly. Protective plastic sheath or no, this was still fragile terrain. I moved the clipper guard in place and opted for a length of ‘three’. It was dense, slow going.The guard kept getting crammed with my own curly mane. I’d have to switch it on, empty it out and get back to business. That being said, it was still much faster, safer and more accurate than my previous method of eyeballing with small sharp hair scissors. I made sure to get the base of the shaft and all over the balls. Any stray hairs were hunted down to extinction. No more than fifteen minutes later I emerged from this wooly womb born anew. Tastefully trimmed and tailored. No longer bound by barbarous barbering, but styled with sophistication.
Okay, it looked passable and that was good enough for me. It also saved a shit ton of time. It’s not every day that you find a way to revolutionise an aspect of your life. When you do though, those are the days worth living.
Until I get dirty pubes on my face anyway.