One Good Life | The Great Hair Migration

Sometime in the last year when we weren’t looking, the opening volley in The Hair Wars was fired. This is the advantage to being married to someone your age: You can verbalize the incredulity that this shit is actually happening to you without feeling like a codger. (Or at least that you're both operating on the assumption of co-codgerhood.)

It’s hard to grasp, really. I mean, there you are, lolling about in your 20s, pleasantly smooth and silky. Your hairline borders are respected. Then, you wake up in your mid-30s and you find your territory may have dwindled or your population decreased – unwelcome certainly, but at least expected developments – and there it is. The Renegade. The disturbingly-textured hair that’s not supposed to be where it is.

It’s become a hot topic of conversation between our closest friends. The short list of places from which some of us have confessed to plucking, shaving, waxing or weed-wacking Renegades (see Scientific Diagram, above):

The Hip
The Back – full wax
The Forehead
Moles
The Nostrils
The Ears
The Right Nipple
The Stomach

Usually, you discover the Renegade at an inopportune moment. Or worse, it’s pointed out for you. As you’re getting into the hot tub, or into bed maybe. And the best part? Unless you’re willing to flush thousands of dollars down the vanity toilet on lasers or electrolysis, you can just add it to the list of Stuff I Have to Groom.

Which brings me to my ultimate point: Compassion. I think I’ve discovered why more mature members of our society just fly the flag of acceptance, wear polka-dots and flower prints interchangeably and get choosier about what personal grooming habits they tend to pursue. There's something to be said for the “If you don’t like it, don’t look” attitude.

After all, who wants to spend the rest of their life hunched over plucking acres of unwanted hair? At some point, we all throw down our tweezers and say, "I showered. Good enough."

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