I loathe chest hair. I always have, and considering my age and the fact that I’ve yet to learn to love it, I probably never will. It’s weird, wiry and collectively gathers in strange places on a man’s chest. Have you ever seen a chest hair cowlick? I have. It’s not pretty.
The other night I was out with two friends who, mind you, are younger than me by more than a few years. And as I’m sitting there asserting my disdain for chest hair, the two of them were all but swooning over it. They love it, they think it’s sexy; so I just stared off into the distance and thought of a chest hairless world. I also thought of bunnies; brown ones, to be exact.
While I’d never say that chest hair is a dealbreaker because, come on, the majority of men over 30 have it (and some way younger than that, too), it’s definitely something that makes me a wee bit squeamish.
I had assumed I’d grow into the reality of chest hair, but I just never did. I also assumed I’d get over my affinity for skateboarders, but that never happened either. And when guys pull that v-neck t-shirt shit and the hair is all puffed out as the gentleman in question is acting like a peacock strutting his manliness, it’s even worse.
I know I’m crazy. I know it probably has something to do with my dad and my Peter Pan complex, but I also know that of the men I’ve been with, not more than a handful had chest hair — even those in their late 30’s! So maybe my senses have been trained to scoff at it because of this fact. Or maybe I just don’t like a scratchy place to lay my head in bed.