The Best A Man Can Get.

Well, I finally did it.

I never thought it would come to this, but it has. It's a dark, dark day in my life.

I shaved my back.

*shudder*

Let me start at the beginning.

I'm in the bathroom, admiring the physique that God and the pizza gave me, when I notice something out of the corner of my eye. It's my son, standing at the doorway, with a horrified look on his face, holding up a quivering finger, pointing, mouth agape.

I should probably let readers know at this point that only my shirt was off.

Shaking finger, eyes wide, mouth open...and he lets loose this gem.

"You have hair....on your back?"

I stood for a moment, until the weight of his words really took hold, and slammed into me with the force of a lemon wrapped around a large gold brick.

"What? What did you say?"

"Hair. On your back. You look weird. Am I going to get hair on my back? Is the hair on my back going to be blond? That'd be weird. Blond back hair. Bond black hair. Blond black bear..."

He continued, but he had me at "hair". ON MY BACK.

DARK day, faithful readers. I tell you plainly, there has never been a time when I've cared much about appearances, nor how I look to others. I've never been one to work out, be narcissistic, or even suck in a gut or flex at a passing mirror. I'll do the funny poses post-shower, but never care much to think "MAN, I need to have a six-pack." My stomach is hard as a rock, thank you very much; just hidden under about 4 inches of snow.

But BACK HAIR? That's something for...old people...and hairy...people. I can still count my chest hairs on two hands, and...now, this?

I contorted to check it out. I was picturing massive amounts of curly black hair, in a thick mat, with burrs and knots in it; George "The Animal" Steele, that guy at the Y with the tank top sweating too much that you never want to guard playing basketball...my Aunt Gerty...

I twist and crank and look. I see nothing...but wait. There it is. A single black hair, left shoulder blade. One of those rogue hairs that is trying to get the promotion by growing an inch longer than all the others. An overachiever. The hair that always has it's hand raised with the right answer in Follicle School.

My enemy.

As I stared at the vile growth and it stared back, I think I heard the theme to "The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly" play outside somewhere.

I raised my weapon. Gillette. Triple blade. Disposable, only used 3 or 4 times. Still has some of that green strip that is supposed to make the shaving experience smooth. I let loose a warrior's war cry and shaved a good 5 inch swath, enough to let this upstart hair and the other hairs it's been running with that the Law's in town.

Stick your head up and it's liable to get cut off.

And as I rinsed the black leviathan from the blade down the sink, it sticks on the plug, as if Rose was on the top of the plank, begging it not to let go, never let go. I opened the tap a little further, and bid farewell to this haunter of dreams, this false prophet of my future.

I raise the razor overhead, triumphant, to let loose my barbaric "Yawp" to be heard over the rooftops of the town, and as I stood, muscles tensed, nerves heightened, 60 watt flood lamp rays beaming down from recessed heavens, fresh gooseflesh rippling as I bathed in my glorious victory and shouted, "Yeeeeaaaarrrrgggghhhhhhhh..............."

My wife comes in and says, "You're an idiot."

Fine. Have your laugh, woman. The hair knows.