Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow!

When I was a young man, the hair on my head was thick and luxurious, my skin was smooth and my body firm.

Now my body is like a sack of silly putty, my skin is like an Axminster carpet and my luxurious hair has turned into African scrub land.

I think that my hair is trying to escape my body bit by bit. It all started out on the top of my head; now it is slipping down my body. I first noticed it trying to climb out the bottom of my nose. Then to my surprise I found what looked like a family of daddy longlegs living in my ears. These turned out to be long thick hairs that had either grown two inches overnight or managed to hide in the cavities of my ears.

It wasn’t long before all my head hair made a break for it, in one mass exodus. Hairs appeared around my nipples, on my fingers and toes. But the biggest shock came just a few years ago.

After having a warm relaxing bath one evening, I found myself wondering into my bedroom. I seem to do this a lot lately. My legs set off walking while my brain is preoccupied with other matters. I find myself in various rooms, totally unaware why I’m there. So I decided to dry myself off and get dressed. Because I was dripping wet from the bath, I thought it best not to sit on the bed to dry off. I could have an affair, drain our bank account or smash up my car, but to wet our new duvet cover would be certain death for me if my wife noticed. She is quite a tolerant person but wet duvets are just a step too far for her. Well, that, and walking through the living room with my shoes on. I know what you are thinking, but we have been together for so long that marriage guidance is useless, we would only leave the counsellor needing counselling.

Anyway, I decided to dry myself while standing in my bedroom. All was going well until I tried to dry my toes. This was when I found out that I have a talent for yoga! Standing on one leg while lifting the other and bending forward. If I was a yoga grand master, this would be called something really pretentious like ’Hail to the Sun!’

But because I’m from Huddersfield, we would call it, ’Watch you don’t fall over, you daft bastard!’

While I was in my ‘Hail to the daft bastard’ position, I noticed something that freaked me out. In the reflection of the large mirror on the wardrobe. Some how someone had removed my tight smooth behind and replaced it with the arse of a drill monkey! How could this happen?

This is no joke: my arse is no longer human. Viewed from below a large tree in the Amazon jungle, my arse would look completely at home. In fact you might be forced to comment on what a nice arse that is, swinging up high in the trees. But being reflected back at you in a bedroom mirror in a house in Huddersfield, it was unnatural. It didn’t need shaving; it would need Napalm to deforest this mass.

But there was worse to come, when I pointed out my worry about how much of my head hair was trying to escape from my arse to my wife Carol, she just sighed and said, “ Have you only just noticed it? I have had to look at that for years!”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought you knew.”

“No I didn’t know that I now have the rear of  a monkey. I need to get rid!”

“What, of your arse?!”

“No, you ejit! Of the monkey hair on my arse.”

“A waxing it is then!”

That night, armed with a strip of waxing paper, Carol set about "operation monkey boy"! There’s no point in me trying to tell you that this story is going to have an happy ending.

With the first go, she managed to attach one of my balls to the waxing paper. Her arm action, as she ripped the paper backwards was the same force needed to get a fighter jet off an air craft carrier. My left testicle was one moment lying peacefully in a slumber only to be snatched backwards at warp factor nine the next. The scream was registered by scientists watching for aliens in deep space, as my wife performed her DIY vasectomy, followed by a pathetic little whimper usually heard from frightened puppies. Which incidentally described my bollocks at this moment in time.

Carol gave me a smile that would give Hannibal Lecter the creeps, “Sorry, did that hurt?” She enquired sweetly holding a piece of waxing paper full of pubic hair and scrotum!

Tears streamed down my face as I crawled from the bed desperately trying to escape the mad woman with the waxing paper. I crawled to the bathroom and locked myself in. I don’t like to cry in front of her!

So, needless to say I now have one arse cheek far hairier than the other, and my hair can escape to where ever the hell it wants. 

Waxing is fine for tables, but not for arses!