A Close Shave

Back in my day when men carried wallets instead of purses, it was commonly thought that if a man had enough spare time to shave his back, he was either a ward of the state or he was living off Mama’s welfare earnings while she made pot roast and homemade yeast rolls with cream puffs for dessert.

Any man caught moisturizing body parts that Nice People couldn’t see would be subject to ridicule and excommunication from his bowling team. In extreme cases, license to own and drive muscle cars would be suspended. I know of one man who shaved his body to satisfy the whim of a roller skate waitress at the new drive-in. She was later caught pulling on the pony tail of a Harley biker at the drive through.

I come from a section of the country where any male over the age of 21 who doesn’t have a scar that precludes hair from growing on some part of his body is considered a Mama’s Boy and is subject to exclusion from all-you-can-eat wing night with the guys. Show me a man who shaves his face, waxes his chest, tweezes his eyebrows, and has his legs lasered, and I’ll show you the next winner on Project Runway.

Really, I’m just being self serving about the whole thing. In these days when it’s the fashion for men to keep their body slicker than an icicle, there’s nothing to keep the surface temperature at a desirable level once frost dusts the peaks and points. I like a man with some heat conductors left intact. When winter comes and my behind is colder than a Butterball turkey the week before Thanksgiving, I want to know that I’m snuggling up to somebody who doesn’t think of defrost exclusively as a microwave activity.

But for now it’s warm and winter is way beyond the horizon, so I'll just while away my time watching all the Hollywood hunks in the summer movies. I’ll start with Wolverine.

A little hair of the dog never hurt anyone.