Personal Musings

The Ear Hair is the Worst

On aging and, well, ear hair

Today’s my birthday and I’d like to talk about something no one talks about when you get older: ear hair. The last time I paid someone to cut my hair (a rarity), I heard a little zip pass by my ear. I looked ahead, smack dab in the mirror, and the hair stylist says, “Trimming your ear hair.”

I thought, “Man, now I feel old.”

I came home and Allison greets me at the door.

“Your haircut looks nice,” she said.

“Two for one special,” I said. “No charge for the ear hair.”

“You do have some ear hair now,” she said.

“Thanks for letting me know,” I said. “I had no idea.”

Which I didn’t at the time. I know now because I haven’t gotten my haircut by anyone other than my hand and a pair of Wahl’s clippers since — not because of shame. I’m frugal. Or, as others may say: a bit of a cheapskate. Let’s go with frugal. So I see the ear hair now.

Why Men’s Ears Grow Tiny Hair Jungles

Did you know that as men grow older and, in turn, ridonkulously wiser, there’s a built-in mechanism within our body involving hormone-binding globulins which increases as our testosterone decreases and thus shifts hair growth from the top of our head down to our ears, nose, and eyebrows?

Of course you did; because like me, you’ve seen an older gentleman with fuzzy caterpillar eyebrows, Rapunzel’s hair falling out of his nose, and ear hair that’s ready to party like it’s 1977; and, like me, you didn’t know the name of this process.

Now you know it.

The nose hair is something. I’m constantly twitching my nose in public because my nose hair seemingly grows three inches when I walk out my front door, then curls around the corner of the middle of my nose in that little spot between both nostrils. What’s that called? Septum. I had to look it up. Thanks Internet.

But the ear hair: the ear hair is the worst. If you’re a guy, you know what I’m talking about.

Why Mama, Why?

I guess I’m fortunate though. I still have a full head of hair on my head. I’ve broken three brushes this week in an attempt to tame my mane. It’s as thick as it was when I was 16 years old as seen in the worst photograph in the history of mankind: my senior portrait from Randolph-Henry High School, Class of 1999.

Which my mom still has proudly hanging up in her living room in an 8×10.

For crying out loud, take it down.

I got married.

I had kids.

I have a beard now.

There are so many other worthy options.

But that photo… holy crap in a handbasket is it horrible.

I swear if selfies had been a thing 25 years ago, there’s no way I would have walked out the front door looking like that.

But I’m wrong about that. I did have a mirror.

And somehow that mirror lied to me and said, “Looking good. Looking good.”

That’s All, Folks!

I hope your day is swell. I’m somewhere now as you read this running down a trail in the middle of the woods because that’s my jam.

Or maybe I’m hunkered down on the couch with my weighted blanket over me watching Red Dawn (1984) eating a chocolate mousse parfait with whipped cream and shaved chocolate. Mmm, chocolate mousse parfait with whipped cream and shaved chocolate.

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