The other day, I was walking by my ex-boyfriend’s workplace when I
pointed him out to Vitamin_D who exclaimed: Wow, he’s hairy. I burst out
laughing because it was so true. Maybe the effect was heightened
because he was standing next to a bald man, but there was no denying it.
He was hairy. Very hairy. A veritable walking furcoat.
I date hairy men. Three out of my five ex-boyfriends have been
hair-gifted. (Thus far, we can surmise that I go for hairy, tall,
skinny, geeky, Asian men.)
Here a hair. There a hair. Everywhere a hair. It’s crazy where hair
sprouts on some men’s bodies. (Nipples…ew…ears…shudder…nose…no!!) And the
amount! Oh, the amount! It ain’t pretty. Sometimes it’s so much, you
can’t even classify it as hairy anymore. It has meandered into the
realm of furry.
It’s not that I purposely go out looking for hairy men. They look
normal when you see them from the neck up. It comes as a surprise to
find out their hair quotient (A horrible, horrible surprise). I’ve
always pushed my boyfriends to do something about their hair. I’ve
convinced many a men to pluck their brows. I’ve always been adamant
about shaving off facial hair. I’ve even convinced one man to nair off
his pube hairs. Hairy is not sexy.*
So men, I’d like to put out this request: Don’t be afraid of hair
removal! It’s not girly. Especially don’t be afraid of waxing (in
particular if you are part of the Hairy Ass Club). The pain is quick
and fleeting. And if you’re that afraid, down a few shots before you go
get waxed. There’s nothing sexier than baby smooth skin on a men.
*This does not apply to me however. I’ve been known to go months at a
time without letting a razor come near my legs. Let’s not even go into
my other body parts.
On a less superficial note:
Y noted the other day to me that my family doesn’t eat together. I
scoffed at the idea at first. Of course we ate together,….didn’t we?
I could recall numerous lunches and dinners we’ve had together, sitting
around the table talking about our day. But those dinners were years
ago. I can barely recall the last time my family and I ate together.
It’s been so long. They usually eate dinner without bothering to call
me to eat. I usually prepare my own stuff to eat, or I’m eating out
somewhere with someone, or I skip it altogether. It’s sad that this little common ritual we used to share together is lost.
My family and I have not been close in the past year. The distance
between us is huge. It hasn’t been this expansive since I was a
rebellious 16 year old. It’s different this time around too because
it’s not a gap I’ve purposely created in a silly attempt to have
independence. It’s been incidental. They’ve been busy trying to get the
new business started. I’ve been busying working and hanging out with my
new boyfriend (On a different tangent, can I still call him new if it’s
been six months? It still feels new…). My room in our new house is
huge, with its own tv, computer and ensuite (Is that what we call the
little bathroom in attached to a bedroom?). Except for the occassional
snack or glass of water, there’s no reason for me to leave. I have a
new car so I’m mobile, out at work, with the boyfriend or somewhere
else in Vancouver.
We don’t talk much anymore, except for the occassional bits and pieces
of information about work or my boyfriend. They don’t ask much and I
don’t offer much. Maybe it’s because I’m afraid of how incapable we are
of deep and lengthy conversation. Maybe they don’t want to ask more
questions for fear that I’ll interpret it as prying and push them
So now, they know almost nothing about my life. I know so little about
theirs. It’s sad. I want a closer relationship with my family. I’ve
seen some of my friends who have such horrible relationships with their
parents. They call their mother “nag” and “bitch”. They don’t talk to
their father. They say they hate their parents. I don’t want my
relationship with my parents to turn into that. I don’t hate them. I
love them. And I miss them.