I was determined not to write any more griping posts so that I might hide the fact that I am a crotchety old man, but the result was that I was unable to come up with any post whatsoever. It would seem I have, as dear Barbara Pym would say, “found my voice” and it is sort of a sniveling whine. Whatever.
And what would you like to complain about today, mrpeenee? Well, let me tell ya. I was spending a quiet evening at the always charming Kabuki Spa, sweating it up in the steam room, getting a muscle splaying massage, and eyeing the other inhabitants. There were two, count them, two, gorgeous specimens. You could tell where they were by all the other old men in their immediate orbit trying not to be too obvious about getting an eyeful.
Everyone else in there? Grizzly, darling, absolutely appalling. And I fully admit to being one of them. Being an elder might have some perks, but looks are not among them. Saggy, with things you didn’t even know you had drooping down, we all look like wore out knickers hung up to dry. Gravity wins, baby. It always wins.
Which brings us back to a spa full of wrinkledy old queens. My people. But at least I don’t have to worry about being wrinkledy and overly hairy. Let me be quick to say proudly no one loves hairy men more than me; his hirsute quality was one of things I loved best about R Man. But there comes a point when you need to get that fur under control.
I’m not talking about the dread manscaping, there’s no need for shaving or waxing, but there’s also no need to appear to be wearing Macy Gray’s afro on your chest. Just trim it. Are your pubes on the verge of turning into dreds? Can you braid the hair on your shoulders? Does your back have an aura of hair? Get a trimmer and set it on weed wacker. I swear some of these queens in the steam room looked like they were holding a goat between their legs.
If you’re looking for some well done hair, might I suggest the following?