Hair

Have you ever noticed how hair obsessed we are? We love it. We hate it. When it behaves badly, we punish it with a ponytail.

We are envious of the alpha-protein, amino acid, fortified, silken shine of hair models on Pantene commercials. We pay big bucks at the Beauty Shop in hopes of achieving more good hair days than bad. We purchase conditioners, creams, gels, sprays, spritzes, mousse, heat protectors to compliment our high heat appliances, various brushes to be used with our hair dryers and we make for darn sure that our little girls have a nice stash of bows, barrettes, headbands, ribbons, clippies & scrunchies. More importantly, we take notice and are downright intrigued by effortless herbal orgasms – in our showers! Just by using the removable massaging shower nozzle shampooing our hair.

Especially when it is sparkling clean, shiny, coiffed to perfection and limited to just a few mentionable areas of the body - we love hair. However, just wait until one of those protein-enhanced, radiant strands is found swimming in the special sauce of a Big Mac. Hair instantly loses its appeal.

There are other occasions where hair makes us gag and say “eeeeewwwww” & “gross” as well as other words that would violate "terms of service" I can’t even begin to spell.

There are also times where you don’t want to think too much about hair. Like at the Twat Doc's Gynecologist’s office. We want to rest assured that ours is sparkling clean, shiny, waxed, tweezed & coiffed to perfection, so we take the necessary measures beforehand. Our legs (also shaved, waxed & sparkling clean) rest a little easier in those medieval torture devices stirrups knowing there’s not a hair out of place. We lean back & scootch down. We scootch down some more. For those of you who are stirrup-virgins, or who are less experienced than gyno-groupies like me, you will be aiming for that hoohah-suspended-in-space, falling-off-the-exam-table kind of feeling. Once you’ve achieved that, scootch down about another inch. There. Now relax – go to that mental place on the beach . . .

Well, that’s all fine and dandy until you just happen to notice that your physician has hair on his nose. Not talking uni-brow, but on. his. nose. Some of you reading this know precisely who what talking about and you just involuntarily crossed your legs, didn’t you? Please tell me, how can one be expected to deal with stirrups and hairy noses simultaneously? Seriously, this is how neurons short out and women step out onto that slippery slope of sanity. These are the important stories that 20/20’s investigative reporters should be chasing, not mundane topics like the skyrocketing rate of sub-prime foreclosures or gas prices.

Again, I digress.

Why all this rambling about hair? Well, let me tell you, it all started with Man (Fess up. You are not surprised.) when I noticed for the second time in one week that a stray nose hair the Lone Ranger was performing surveillance out his left nostril. I brought it to his attention (again) and begged him to just yank the darn thing out – or better yet, let me. Oh, noooo, he whined like a baby, it’ll hurt like hell. Sorry, dude, but your pain will be my gain, because I can’t intelligently engage in an argument a serious conservation while I’m focused on that. It’s much too distracting.

Then it hit me in a slightly delayed reaction – he said “hurt like hell”. Wait a minute here! Hurt like hell?! It’s ONE little nose hair. Does it take Lamaze breathing & a local anesthetic to help him push through the millisecond of excruciating pain that will accompany the yanking out removal of the delinquent hair. In my opinion, “Hurt like Hell” statements should be reserved for bikini waxes childbirth and traumatic amputations, not one little plucky, tweezers job.

Anyway, to momentarily pacify me, Man poked the offender back up his nose (I kid you not, this is the life I live) and tells me that I am more than welcome to trim it for him when we get home – since, obviously, it’s bothering me way more than it is him.

Has he lost his (freakin’) mind?! How smart is it to annoy your Frau and then ask her to come at your face with a pair of scissors? I swear, it’s possible that Lorena Bobbitt was just trying to clip a stray spousal pubic hair when he pissed her off an accident happened (speaking of traumatic amputations . . . ) Just a thought people, but I see where it might be admissible in a court of law.

Anyway, back to Man. Just for kicks, and to get a dumb answer that is blog-worthy, I asked him what scissors he’d like for me to use while doing the deed. The good ones, of course. I think not.

I guard my Friskars with great HausFrau enthusiasm. I growl at MiniMe who wants to take them outside to cut the trampoline netting roses & irises. I hide them from the same child should she once again get a bug up her butt to snip her hair into something less-than-fashionable, like a mohawk, or worse, another mullet. I protect them from Laze-E who wants to take them to her pig-sty room for no other reason that to see how they look sitting between the week old curdled glass of milk & dirty gym socks. And now, I promise to defend them against snot-encrusted adventures in Man’s respiratory tract.

While I would really like to just yank the darn thing out by its roots with a pair of tweezers in a well planned and executed surprise combat maneuver while Man is sleeping on the couch watching TV, I must be just a little more subtle. As I sit here typing the words that question my sanity document my life as a HausFrau, I have the perfect idea; the solution to my problem. I know which scissors I’ll use. Genius! Why didn’t I think of it before?

I will snip-snip the nose hair with the scissors I keep hidden in my bathroom drawer. You know, the ones that have the exclusive function of trimming Tulips in the Netherlands. I must admit, it’s the perfect pair for shoving up his nose delicately and loving trimming the wayward nose hair for him. Beer in hand, NCIS on TV, while he leans back in the recliner and scootches down . . .