The real meaning of NoShavember

Thirty days had NoShavember.  I made it through eleven.  It just got too itchy. (That's what she said?)

There shall be no pictures because, well, that would only serve to embarrass myself, as well as possibly some of my family.  Also, I did not take any.  That's a lie.  I took a couple, but the hair wasn't showing up to my satisfaction, so I deleted them.  Must've been bad lighting.

However, the entire experience has given me a new-found respect for the guys in ZZ Top, Duck Dynasty, and my uncle Carl.

I saw that many of the people participating in NoShavember were doing so to raise awareness for some charity or cause.  This sounded like an excellent idea.  So I dedicated my NoShavember to raising awareness of my own laziness, which was, ironically, the main reason I was even participating in the first place!

But it wasn't the only reason.

Once in a while a guy just needs to grow some hair on his face.  Amiright, guys?  Just to prove he can, or maybe for no reason at all. 

You see, those fertile facial fields are the last bastion of male expression and self-experimentation.  Sure, we still have the toilet, but no one gets to see what we do in there.  (FYI, it's mostly reading and pondering our how our life turned out like this.  Maybe an occasional nap.)

These little beard and moustache excursions?  This is all we have. 

We understand women are ultimately going to get their way in pretty much every other decision.  (I'm sorry my future son that I hope to have, if you're reading this, but it's true.)  We know your little ploys.  We know you got rid of our favorite shirt from 1987 and then pretended to be all dismayed and you "don't know WHAT could have possibly happened to it."

But somewhere along the way, a deal must have been struck, perhaps a line drawn.   Men said, "Enough!" 

You can put your frilly rugs and decorative lamps and froufrou throw pillows all over the house.  You can throw away our twenty-year-old clothes when we're at work.  You can even force us to begrudgingly pose for pictures and post them to your precious Facebook wall.  But this -- *admiringly rubbing my chin* -- this is where it ends.

So next time you see a guy sporting facial hair, no matter how hideous or 1970's-porn-star-ish it may be -- and it will be -- perhaps you'll have a little more compassion, maybe even a modicum of respect for those amber waves of keratin. 

Remember, he's just exercising his right to be a man.  In the only way that he knows.  The only way that he has.  Putting his manhood on display for all the world to see.

"They come runnin' just as fast as they can / 'Cause every girl crazy 'bout a sharp-dressed man..."

Dipping a toe in the metrosexual pool

I suppose it all started about six weeks ago.  That's when I glanced down and noticed I had a big potato chip crumb caught in my chest hair.

As I nibbled on said crumb (What?  They were Munchos.  Plus, I shower. At least six days a week.) I began to ponder life.  More specifically, my life.  And most specifically, my chest.  Was it growing where I wanted it to grow, or was it out of control?  Did I need to make drastic chest changes?  Was this a sign from above,or simply a result of sloppy eating and rather poor posture?

Who can really say?  It's nebulous.

I'm fully aware it was only last year that I took a vow of shaving abstinence.  But seriously people, food was getting stuck.  And so, with the shirtless summer season upon us, I took the plunge into the metrosexual pool.

I trimmed my chest.   

Just a little!  It was like mowing the lawn down there.  Not even really a full mow, just evening it out a little.  More like hedge trimming.

OK, so maybe I only stuck my toe in the metrosexual pool.

Anyway, now that it's done, I gotta say I kinda like it.  Sure, a few more crumbs may end up on the floor, but I probably needed to vacuum anyway.  I find myself looking down my shirt at random times throughout the day, just checking it out. Which can be a little awkward when someone walks in at work.

Also, as long as I was, uh, in the neighborhood, I went ahead and trimmed my underarm hair, too.  I'm sorry, but it was a bird's nest under there.

Which brings me to my next point.  Or maybe my only point.  And that is, I get tired of all this maintenance.

Ear hair, nose hair, chest hair, underarm hair.  Now I'm sitting here looking at my toe hair.  I guess I'm gonna have to trim that, too. Where does it end?  What is it all for?  Women?

I've seen cavemen on TV.  They get women, and they're not shaving.  Granted, in most of the footage I've seen they hit the woman over the head with their club then drag her back to the cave.  I'm not sure if courts today would view that favorably, but surely there must be another way.

I was watching an old Police Story last night, and David Groh took off his shirt so they could put a wire on him.  It was like a bearskin rug under there.  Man, I would have rocked the seventies!  Chest hair, lava lamps, nobody looking at you funny when you're singing along falsetto to "Stayin' Alive."  I really wouldn't have to change that much.

OK, I've strayed off my topic a bit.  What was my topic again?  Oh, right, how hard it is being a man.

But alas, even as I gripe and wax defiant, I do so having already acquiesced to a degree.

I just hope my chest hair heroes -- the two Tom's, Selleck and Wopat -- aren't too disappointed.

"Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk / I'm a woman's man / No time to talk..."

Closing the book on deforestation

I have come to a decision.

And you should know decisions often do not come easy for me. In fact, I may take anywhere from six months up to five years or more deciding on such life-altering matters as whether to buy a new phone, whether to get a DVR, or whether to attend a concert. In the case of the latter, sometimes the concert will pass before I decide, and I wind up not even having to make a decision at all. So, win-win.

But the decision I want reveal today is one I have been ruminating over for probably about six years now. And that is, whether or not to shave one's chest. More specifically, mine.

Let me begin by stating that while I do have hair on my chest and stomach area, I really have no idea if it is excessive. I mean, no one's ever gotten their fingers stuck. At least, not for more than a couple seconds. It's not Austin Powers-esque or anything. And thankfully, I don't have any hair on my back.

When I grew up, having hair on one's chest was normal, or so I thought. Tom Selleck, Alan Thicke, the Duke boys, my Dad -- these were my chest role models, the people I looked up to. But anymore? I'm not so sure.

More and more, it seems I and my Church Of The Unshorn Bosom brothers are an ever-shrinking minority. Is shaving the norm now? When did this all start? And where does it end? What's next, shaving our legs? Wearing skinny jeans?

I'm sorry, but I have to take a stand. I'm sick of noticing guys on the beach or at the pool and wondering if they shave or are naturally hairless. Don't you see how wrong that is? I'm noticing guys at the pool! I'm tired of Google-imaging "Alan Thicke shirtless." Even with SafeSearch on moderate, it's still just... too much.

It has to stop.

Maybe I'm lazy. Or maybe I've just gotten old. But shaving seems like way too much maintenance to me at this point. And I imagine much itchiness. Perhaps this is just where I finally hop off the fashion train. I think I've done a remarkably fair job of trying to keep up. Over the years, I've put away the tightie-whities for boxers, traded in the tapered-leg jeans, and even welcomed plaid shorts with open arms and willing legs.

But it's time to admit that I'm not from Jersey Beach or Laguna Hills. I'm not The Situation, or Spooki. I'm Bone. And I'm bringing manly back.

I hereby declare that I will not be shaving my chest. I might even start unbuttoning the second button on my shirt, proudly let the man-meadow sway in the breeze a bit.

Of course, should Tom Selleck do a new movie with a topless scene in which he is clearly rocking the bare-breasted look, at that point I may be forced to revisit my decision.

"I'm so obsessed. My heart is bound to beat right out my untrimmed chest..."

To Dalhausser or not to Dalhausser?

I'm off to the beach with the Darryls this weekend. I'm ready for some relaxation. New Orleans seems so long ago (not to mention a tad fuzzy in my memory). We'll be leaving tomorrow afternoon, which means I have just over twenty-four hours to make one of the biggest decisions of my life.

This is something I've been grappling with off and on for awhile now. It's a tough decision for a man to make. But this seems like the perfect time, as I'm going to be spending four days at the beach where no one knows me--save for my two longtime confidants. If I'm going to do it, it's now or never.

I've run the idea past my sister and a few close friends, and have gotten a wide range of responses. Then my sister inadvertently brought it up over dinner at Mom's one night, prompting a vehement "Noooooo!" from she who bore me. Later, Mom told me in no uncertain terms that I would be "out of the family" if I went through with it.

She wasn't laughing.

I suppose some background information is in order. Several months ago, I was watching a provocative program on television. It was called The Summer Olympics. Perhaps some of you saw it, as well. One athlete, in particular, stood out to me. And that athlete was Phil Dalhausser.

What was it about Dalhausser that entranced me so? Was it his forceful, sand-blasting kills? Was it his lithe, slender six-foot-nine-inch body? No. It was his cleanly shaven head. Think James Carville with a tan.

I had thought about making the hairy to smooth transition before, but Dalhausser's immaculate scalp brought the issue front and center again. I figure if I do it now, I can get a bit of a tan while at the beach so it's won't be pasty white. That all sounds swell, right? So what's the problem?

The problem is, this is a drastic step--a major life decision right up there with... um... well, surely I've made a major decision at some point in the past 36 years. And while I may talk a good game, I'm afraid that the sound of the clippers and the thought of my hair being sheared away like freshly cut grass will cause me to run home screaming and apologizing profusely to my precious follicles for ever allowing the thought to creep into my head.

As I said, I've received a wide range of opinions on the matter. My sister is all for it, because she "thinks it'll be funny." Thanks, sis. She also asked if I was going to get it "slick" like Mister Clean, or just cut it really short. Well, I don't know. What do most people do? Another friend asked, "What if you have dents in your head?" Well, that's a disturbing thought.

Meanwhile, I've been doing some research of my own. Turning to my beloved Wikipedia, I found these the following two statements:

"Incidents of cutting one's scalp with a razor blade are common, but generally are avoidable..." (Ouch. I'd never considered that. I'd hate to have to walk around with a tiny scrap of tissue stuck to my head.)

"Practical reasons include work safety or comfort, lice prevention, grooming simplicity and preparation for surgery." (Lice prevention. That can never be a bad thing.)

Finally, I've tried composing a mental pro and con list. On the pro side: I would save on shampoo and haircuts. Also, less drag if I ever were to join an over-35 swim team.

On the con side: What if it doesn't grow back? What if there are dents? And of course, I'd be out of the family. Though that sounds kinda cool. Sorta like being out of the "business," which makes me think of Sonny Corinthos and Jason Morgan.

And so, blog friends, it has all come down to this: To Dalhausser or not to Dalhausser? That is the question.

If you have opinions, advice, personal testimonials, or would like to adopt a blogger into your family, you know where to find me.

You have twenty-four hours.

"Cut off the mail, and I left on a light, and I locked up the house, and I hopped on a flight..."