Posted tagged ‘Body sculpture’

Hair we go, Hair we go, Hair we go

August 23, 2013

 

It’s all the sculpted, bronzed Cristiano Ronaldo’s fault. He had taken off his shirt at the end of a match and exposed his hairless chest. I wonder what it would be like having one of them, I thought. The hairy chest has been with me for thirty years now. We’ve been through a lot me and the chest hair: moonshining in Maryland, marmot-spotting in France, sock-darning in the tropical climes, we’ve been through it all. Still, I was considering a trimming of the ways.

Before I go on, I must tell you that I am not hairy all over. My back, I have heard from good sources, has no hairs on it at all. Or moles or any blemish whatsoever. You could say my back is my best feature. In fact, it has been said in certain circles that people like to see the back of me. What about that?

I looked at the options of getting rid of my unwanted hair. This is a big step in a man’s life. It’s right up there with getting a tattoo lasered off. The electric shaver, while doing a good job on my face, might not be up to the task in this more heavily congested forestry region. I could envisage missed clumps of hair and bristly bits sprouting after a day or two. Everything would be itchy and clawy. Clearly, the shaver was not going to make the cut. Which left me with wax as the only thing to work with.

I made a few enquiries with the professionals of the wax trade and basically they told me it’s a harmless procedure. The wax strips are adhered to the chest and just pulled off like a band aid. I looked at my nipples (this blog should be X-rated, don’t you think?) and the curly little nippers that grow there. I’m sure this sensitive area would feel the pain and they might miss their hairy companions if they were cut off. They were as close as a horse and a hound.

“Would you like a Brazilian?” the wax lady asked me.

Yes, there are Brazilians for men. They are similar to the traditional Brazilian, only longer. The waxers take off all the growth leaving a small runway of hair that starts at the top of the chin and ends where, well, you know where it ends. This trail of gunpowder was not for me. I refused.

It did get me thinking that maybe I should see a sculptor. With my full chest resembling a block of marble a good sculptor could go to town with it. There were myriad variations that could be carved in this dense woodland. This was exciting. It was like finding an unused part of skin and getting a new tattoo. I got a hold of Rodin and gave him a commission.

“Make my chest into a phone bar code.” I demanded.

 

Phone bar codes store information in a two-dimensional (2-D) matrix of tiny squares, dots or other geometric patterns. Next time I take my shirt off, the fans will get their cameras out and think that they’re scanning a bar code. When an image of the matrix is captured, software in the phone converts it into a web address, a piece of text or a number. Who knows, maybe it will direct the snappers to somewhere in the great blue yonder? More probably, they’ll be left with a photograph of my sheared self.