6.20.2004
Pre-Ear Hair Originally Untitled
Reprinted from Chickenlegs - 8/20/02
For years, my back has been a barren plane devoid of growth. If you were a flea, you would have had no shelter below my neck, let me tell you, Jack.
Then, last week, the horror came to my apartment.
I felt an itch in the middle of my back, at the very limit of my arm's reach. It was a hair. A vile hair. A loathesome hair.
"No problem," I foolishly thought, figuring it was a fine hair from my head that had worked its way down my shirt.
Alas, a quick tug revealed that it was, in fact, attached. Attached to my back, an ugly black hair, made more black when viewed against my alabaster flesh. Black as dried blood on an unclean wound. And thick. Thick like a dead millipede.
I am no contortionist, but I managed to dislocate my arm and neck in my effort to remove this offending follicle. Looking over my shoulder into the mirror, I used my best pair of tweezers to grasp and deskin it. It took fifteen minutes and all of my strength. The thing didn't want to let go, and when it did come up, the gruesome follicle came out with it.
Exhausted, but succesful, I examined this awful, black thing. It looked like the sort of hair you may have seen growing on Jeff Goldblum during The Fly. Thicker than a normal hair, straighter than a pubic hair, and more revolting than a nose hair. It was mine, but I cruelly spurned it. I flushed it down the toilet lest it find its way onto my torso again.
Now, every time my back itches, I feel a twinge of horror. Is it only a matter of time before I am one of those scary, bear-like men you see on the beach sometimes? What is a hair grows where I cannot reach it? What is next? Ear hair?
The thought is far too gruesome to consider.
For years, my back has been a barren plane devoid of growth. If you were a flea, you would have had no shelter below my neck, let me tell you, Jack.
Then, last week, the horror came to my apartment.
I felt an itch in the middle of my back, at the very limit of my arm's reach. It was a hair. A vile hair. A loathesome hair.
"No problem," I foolishly thought, figuring it was a fine hair from my head that had worked its way down my shirt.
Alas, a quick tug revealed that it was, in fact, attached. Attached to my back, an ugly black hair, made more black when viewed against my alabaster flesh. Black as dried blood on an unclean wound. And thick. Thick like a dead millipede.
I am no contortionist, but I managed to dislocate my arm and neck in my effort to remove this offending follicle. Looking over my shoulder into the mirror, I used my best pair of tweezers to grasp and deskin it. It took fifteen minutes and all of my strength. The thing didn't want to let go, and when it did come up, the gruesome follicle came out with it.
Exhausted, but succesful, I examined this awful, black thing. It looked like the sort of hair you may have seen growing on Jeff Goldblum during The Fly. Thicker than a normal hair, straighter than a pubic hair, and more revolting than a nose hair. It was mine, but I cruelly spurned it. I flushed it down the toilet lest it find its way onto my torso again.
Now, every time my back itches, I feel a twinge of horror. Is it only a matter of time before I am one of those scary, bear-like men you see on the beach sometimes? What is a hair grows where I cannot reach it? What is next? Ear hair?
The thought is far too gruesome to consider.
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