Man’s shaving journey. Manscaping and more.
So I don’t like my fur, get over it! Bears would be envious. To say I’m hirsute is an enormous understatement.
For the sake of all that’s decent in the universe I decided some time ago to remove a good portion of the rug growing from me like rabid chia pet sprouts.
As a child, the notion of the burly, hairy chest, the matted back, the heavily covered arms and legs represented real manly characteristics. Dad, uncles, and grandpas reinforced the idea.
They would say, “This will put some hair on your chest.” Hairiness seemed to be the gauge of manhood.
Well, I’m here to tell you it ain’t no special man privilege to have a bush-ass.
Body-shaving is not a shame. The process is quite freeing. About 27 years ago the question hit me, “What is all this hair for?”
I grew up in Florida, moved away for a while, and now I’m back. The heat here is oppressive. By the time I reached my teen years hair grew around my body like a pelt of unstoppable, regenerating seaweed.
At the beach, my friends would title me Sasquatch and so on. They also experienced the programming embodying much body hair meant manliness. The 1970s and 80s marked a unique period in my life.
