My husband seems to have this love/hate thing going on with his body hair. He has often said that he was proof positive that we, as humans, do share genetic code with monkeys. He has complained many a time that he has body hair akin to that of a gorilla.
Recently, he was going through another anti-hair phase, and I had assumed that all of this was his usual grousing, and that he would roll merrily along, complaining about his hair, and be constantly checking his chest and back out in the bathroom mirror.
Imagine my surprise when he sidled up to me on a morning notso long ago, and swiped a very disturbingly smooth leg across my own rather prickly one. He leaned down to give me a kiss, and asked throatily, "Do you like?"
It seems that I can no longer leave Nair unattended in the bathroom, for when JF has a block of uninterrupted time, and that bottle calling to him, trouble ensues. He's Nair-ed five-sixths of his entire body. Back, legs, chest, arms, even the underams! All as smooth as an egg!
He gives me this long speech about how back hair is just plain gross, and he was tired of being furry. He maintains that he wants to appear sexy for me - the woman who's madly in love with him, hair or no -- and that he just doesn't feel attractive when he looks down to see greying chest hair. He did it for *me.*
That is -- that's his story until we get to Disney World, and he clocks 63 miles an hour on Summit Plummet. He struts back to our lounge chairs, positively *crowing* about how denuding his body of all hair so he could really FLY down that sucker was the best idea he'd had in a while.
Oops. Busted! "No, no, honey! I really DID do it for you! Having the fastest time ever is just a plus!" He was so proud of his fast time that I couldn't even pretend to be mad. I just won't be leaving him alone with Nair anymore. Or maybe my bras.
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