Y’know, I don’t consider myself to be particularly squeamish WRT the various secretions, excretions, eruptions and exfoliations of the human body. Blood, pus, vomit, urine, feces, spunk, snot, toe jam, smegma, ear wax: it’s all just nature doing its thing as far as I’m concerned. Scabs - yawn. Zits - everybody gets 'em. Foul smells, rude noises - I can deal. My wife and I backpack, and she’s never looked as good to me or smelled as sweet as after a week of hiking with no shower. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no Napoleon. (“Josephine, don’t wash - I’m coming home.”) I’m just saying that I can handle gross body stuff.
But since I turned thirty, my body has started to do something that gives me the willies. Scratch that. It makes me think I’ve finally been brainwashed by all those commercials hawking products meant to solve the embarassing problems of having a functioning human body. You know the ones. Don’t make me say it. That not-so-fresh feeling? Strong enough for a man? Vinegar, talc and potpourri hide a multitude of sins, you know.
So what makes me squirm? The hair follicles in my nostrils have gone into overdrive. I swear, somebody must be spiking my Kleenex with Rogaine. I gotta keep trimming back the wiry little fuckers or my nose starts looking like it’s infested with spiders. And a few of the hairs are grey. Fabulous. If I don’t keep them out of sight it looks like I’ve got a shiny white booger in my nostril.
It’s not like I’m a hairy guy. My eyebrows are pretty bushy (I’ve always expected to look like Edward Teller in my old age, but I can deal with that), but my facial and body hair is pretty sparse. And I like hair. I love hair - in its proper place. Yeah, I know what nose hair is for. I just don’t want to have to comb it.
I’m so embarrased by this, I won’t trim 'em in front of my wife. Can’t even mention it to her. “Honey, I’m gonna go mow my nostrils, now.” Nope. Gotta sneak off when she’s not looking. And bless her, she never ever mentions it. I used to use a small pair of scissors and was always terrified I was gonna chop a chunk out of a nostril a la Jack Nicholson in Chinatown. Stick those little fuckers way up there, snip, snip, snip, atchoo! Good thing I’ve got an impressively large proboscis.
A few weeks ago my wife and I were in Target. I picked up one of those little electric nose-hair trimmers. On the box there’s a picture of a guy with a full beard holding the trimmer near his face. “Geez”, thinks I, “cutting his beard with that thing would be like mowing a golf course with a weed whacker.” No hair sticking out of his nose. No mention of noses on the packaging at all. “Great for ear hair!” Guess I’m not the only one who’s a little sensitive about this issue. I slipped it in the cart like I was buying porno or something. Mrs Kamandi didn’t bat an eyelash - I know, she’s a saint.
So now I’m all set. I scurry into the bathroom when nobody’s looking and dig my new appliance out of the back of the drawer. I hit the switch, the little electric blade spins up to about 100 000 RPM and I stuff the business end up each nostril. Zip, zip, and I’m depilitated for another week.
But it still freaks me out. Yuck. I’m only thirty-two. Will they get bushier as I age? What happens when I’m seventy and crippled with arthritis? “C’mere, Billy, and trim grampa’s nose hair.” Will the hairs keep getting thicker? The trimmer isn’t having any trouble now, but will I have to switch to wire cutters? Don’t even mention plucking. That is not a fucking option. I’d sooner use a blowtorch.
