In which I am taking up a cause

For most of my life, I thought I was supposed to be a writer. Now I know better. I was born to be a crusader, a woman with a purpose, with a cause to champion and a wrong to right. I have a MISSION, people, and I will not be ignored. What is it, you ask?

Chest hair. I’m serious. I miss chest hair. I am fed up to the back teeth with manscaping, and the next guy who takes a razor to his pectorals better watch out. I honestly don’t know how it all started. I understand the need to clean up around a beard or tidy up the neck after a haircut—and believe me, no one deplores the back hair more than I do. If you take off your shirt and it looks like you are still wearing a sweater, put your clothes back on and we will never speak of it.

But to take a perfectly glorious chest and WAX IT BARE is just wrong. (My excessive use of capitals should make it very clear how serious I am here.) The masculine chest is a beautiful thing, and the hair on that chest is merely the very excellent cherry on the manly goodness beneath. To remove it is just WRONG and, frankly, very upsetting to those of us who are fans. The attraction is a primal one. It reminds us of how we’re different. Forgive me for speaking from a hetero-girl perspective. It’s the only one I’ve got, but it’s immutable. I could wax rhapsodic on the subject, and frequently do. The line of hair that leads from the navel south is worth a sonnet alone. So, if you have a man in your life threatening to defuzz, show him this and school him in the error of his ways, and if all else fails, hide the Nair. I mean to reverse this trend to hairlessness, one denuded chest at a time.