The only thing necessary for the triumph of back hair and blotchy skin is for middle-aged men to do nothing. I would apologize to Edmund Burke for the paraphrase but, well, just take a look at the old, double-chinned windbag. He should have written it, or at least thought about it. I know I do, every day. For when I was younger, I looked like a George Platt Lynes image of Adonis: chiseled, toned, smooth, and symmetrical. Pert, even.
Oh, how Time has withered my body on the vine, brought the scourge of winter to my skin and deforestation to my scalp. Nowadays, instead of homoerotic Hollywood art photography, I resemble something by Diane Arbus that's gone wrong in the darkroom.
My new year's resolution, therefore, is to be fitter and more mindful and ruthlessly efficient when it comes to my personal grooming regimen. Apparently such so-called manscaping requires not only constant vigilance and endless willpower but also special tools.
Behold the electric nose hair trimmer, the macho moisturizers, tiny pots of "essential" eye cream and enough particularized deodorizers to make Caliban smell like Oscar Wilde. There is even a long scimitar-shaped razor for removing unwanted tufts of dark air from beneath my shoulder blades and wherever else it has strayed. The danger, of course, is that I end up looking like a plucked turkey with inadequate stuffing. But better that, I suppose, than Bigfoot's puny brother and his associated odors.
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