Strut Interrupted: Chest Hair, Razors, and Regret
How One Shaving Mishap and a Bloody Nipple Ruined My Morning (But Saved My Style)
So, a week or so ago, I’m sporting a beautiful white collarless button-up shirt that I hadn’t worn since I was a much younger (and much skinnier) me. Feeling awfully good—nay, almost sexy—I strut into the early morning kitchen.
“You need an undershirt,” says Krista.
“Good morning to you too,” I reply, easing out of my short-lived prance.
Sure enough, a quick look in the hallway mirror betrays the shadowy hint of chest hair peeking from beneath the shirt.
I curse aloud.
Here’s the thing about white undershirts:
I don’t own any;
There’s nothing worse than the obvious “hey, I’m wearing an undershirt” look of a white T or tank contrasting with skin tone underneath a stylish piece of apparel. It really puts the Al Bundy in an outfit.
Before the comments come raining down on me, there really ARE worse things than the “hey, I’m wearing an undershirt” look in this late-capitalist, white/cis/patriarchy-dominated, climate-change-fighting, mental health-ravaged society. But for the sake of white male privileged ironic storytelling, there really is nothing worse than looking like Al Bundy.
I don’t want an undershirt.
But damn it, I want my strut back.
That’s when I remember the countless “manscaping” ads that pop up every time I open Facebook (hey, thanks, capitalism!).
So, into the shower I go with my cordless beard trimmer and one of my wife’s razors.
I come out looking like a cross between a pre-pubescent boy and a flyweight boxer.
But at least I can wear my shirt again!
I mean, I itch. And for days, my chest stubble grabs uncomfortably at my T-shirts. But I have nary an anxious thought about wearing white (even gasp after Labour Day).
Fast forward to today.
I awake knowing I have (yet another) regularly scheduled cardio stress test, which I know will be with a pair of female techs (oh, the rodeos I’ve known). Looking in the crack-of-dawn mirror, I realize that, because I had stupidly shaved my chest (yes, the novelty has definitely worn off), I have roughly a sixteenth of an inch of stubble all over my frontside.
Definitely not wanting to strip down/get wired up to electrodes looking like that, I hop into the shower, clippers and razor in hand, and once again come out looking pink, shiny, and new.
Except this time with a bloody nipple.
You know how hard it is to stop the bleeding from a shaving nick?
Yeah, that. Except on a slightly more awkward body part.
So, out the door I rush to the cardiology clinic, my man boob mangled and bloody, sure to look like an absolute tool/fool.
Which is why, while alone at a stoplight, I unbutton my shirt to do a quick nipple check—just to see how much blood there is and if I accidentally lopped off anything important.
Looking up to check the stoplight status, I’m surprised to see a car pulled up beside mine. The twenty-something woman inside stares at me, a mixture of surprise, amusement, and what I perceive to be disgust on her face.
She’s animatedly talking, so I assume she’s on a hands-free call.
I can’t be sure of this, but I’m reasonably confident I lip-read her say the words “nipple” and “freak.”
As the light turns green, she speeds off, and my eyes roll back in my head.
“Fuck… my… life…” I say aloud to the emptiness and my still leaking nipple. “F…M…L…”
So, friends. How is your morning going?