I shave my ears once a week. I don’t use a razor: I use a beard trimmer. This is not how I pictured my life at 31. Maybe at 60, but not 31. I don’t even know where the hair came from. I never had hairy ears. Thankfully, the ear hair is not in my inner ear but on the outer surface—a little up top and a small patch just above the lobes.
Some guys like to flaunt their ear hair with a sense of pride or, quite possibly, no sense at all. The man who manages the college radio station I used to work at has a small forest growing inside his ears. I assume he’s single, because if I were his wife, I wouldn’t let him leave the house.
My theory, when it comes to my ear hair, is that it was caused from the hair on my head. When I was in grammar school, we did this experiment where we put one bean plant near the windowsill and another bean plant inside the closet. The bean plant inside the closet grew all crazy, because it was searching for light. All last year my hair was fairly long and covered my ears. Since my ears were denied their proper amount of sunlight, my ear hair grew all crazy. Apply this same theory to the radio station manager and one can deduce that his ear forest was most likely caused from wearing headphones.
If I had money, I would spend it on laser hair removal; however, thanks to graduate school and student loans, my smooth, hairless ears will have to wait.
As I mentioned up top, I shave my ears once a week. I use a beard trimmer. Sometimes I pluck: it hurts terribly but produces better results. Some guys light their ear hair on fire.
When I was a kid, I was warned of acne, cavities, and body odor, but no one ever warned me of ear hair. “Oh, by the way, when you turn thirty-one, ear shaving will become part of your weekly routine.” Not like anyone could have told me that anyway, as it’s up to the body to decide when and where to let you down.
One of the reasons I never really wanted children was that I didn’t want to pass my flaws (i.e. crooked hairline, questionable digestive system, asymmetrical face, self-diagnosed depression and anxiety, EAR HAIR) onto them. The desire for anyone to become a parent continues to perplex me. Aside from the hard work and sacrifice it takes to raise a child, I often wonder how you are supposed to explain to your son or daughter that the flaws you dislike about yourself may one day affect them?
If only there was a way to communicate with your nonexistent child to see if he or she were cool with your flaws.
“I have to tell you something before your mother and I create you.”
“What’s that?” asks nonexistent child.
“I have ear hair.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-one and you have ear hair!”
“I didn’t think I’d have it until I was sixty.”
“Are you there nonexistent child?”
“Yes . . . I’m thinking.”
I often ask myself if I am glad that I was created. As a kid, the answer would be yes, but as an adult, the answer would be a bit more complicated. There are parts of life that I enjoy, but the older I get, the sadder life becomes. I do feel guilty about my lack of enthusiasm toward life, because I do realize how fragile life is and how, at any moment, it can be taken away.
It’s not that I want to die, but somedays, living is hard and dying (more so, not existing) would be easier.
- For one: I wouldn’t feel so sad.
- For two: I wouldn’t stress over my flaws.
- For three: I wouldn’t be shaving my ears once a week.
Eventually the need to shave anything will no longer be an issue, as one day, I will die, and my body will be placed in a casket and buried six-feet underground. I will become the bean plant that was placed inside the closet; however, my ability to search for light will have expired.
The best thing I can do is keep on shaving and remain thankful that I have outer ear hair and not inner ear hair, because when it comes down to it, I’m still able to leave the house.
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