Shaving this morning, I starting thinking about that small, bare gap, beginning about 1" below my adam’s apple and going down close to an inch before the hair on my chest starts.
Every so often, a few hairs sprout up, testing the pristine grounds, wondering whether conditions for life exist there, seemingly uncertain whether to stay, while my razor pauses, waiting for a signal to fell them or offer mercy.
Whatever I do, they don’t last for long, almost as if there’s an agreement somewhere among the various hair cabals that nothing may grow there.
It’s the hair demilitarized zone: no permanent residents allowed, off-limits for all follicles with encroachment designs.
Leave all pigmentation at the gate.
Hee. A friend of mine apparently lacks a civilized neck-hair DMZ. You can see how his chest hair is shaved in a tidy line at has collar. He’s Indian, if that helps you picture the situation more accurately.
Strangely, I think it’s kinda hot. But maybe that’s just because I’m completely in love with the guy in a friendly, collegial kind of a way.