Who Gives a Pluck? Possibly Me

There are three things in life I vowed I would absolutely, positively, never-in-a-million-years do:

1. Cook anything requiring more than four ingredients.

2. Buy an “As Seen On TV!” product.

3. Manually alter my eyebrows.

I only wish I had that hairline.

I’ve held steadfast to the first two pledges. My cooking repertoire is basically limited to breakfast items, including several variations of toast (buttered, French, cinnamon, buttered French cinnamon), and although I’ve come close to ordering a SliceOMatic on several occasions, I’ve always managed to hold off the urge until that deal-breaking sixth minute when a second SliceOMatic wouldn’t be included at the $19.99 price.

But after 37 years of uninhibited growth, I’ve finally succumbed to the cultural phenomenon which is manscaping.

Now, to reiterate, I’m only referring to the eyebrow district. I’ve shaved my pubic region for years. My thong just won’t seat correctly without a bit of coarse-hair trimmage, and nobody wants to see a banana hammock that isn’t properly fitted. Hell, I even gave the bush a buzzcut way back in college when my buddies and I played a drinking game where the loser had to shear off the lion’s mane (and let me assure you: there’s nothing that sobers a guy up quicker than nicking his scrotum with a dull set of Wahl clippers).

And of course I tidy up my ears. These days I have to. At the rate that shit grows, you’d think my earlobes were soaked in Petri dishes of Rogaine each night. If I didn’t trim them, within a week I’d be able to flop the growth from the east and the west over the top of my head where they’d merge symbolically in the middle to form the “End of the Cold War Combover.”

My nose hair? Clipped regularly out of necessity, which isn’t to say that looking like a New Year’s Eve party favor every time I sneezed wouldn’t have its moments.

Wonder how this would fare on pubs?

However, I’d held out all these years on shaping my eyebrows. Until now.

But there comes a point in a man’s life when he looks in the mirror and realizes that the term “bad hair day” only applies to those two unruly caterpillars creeping toward his eyelids — the rest of his head being pretty well fucked from a follicle standpoint — and he must painfully acknowledge that it may be time to wake up and smell the wax. Or the tweezers.

Because when your eyebrows are the most prominent (only) hair features from the top of your chest to the nape of your neck, it’s in your best interest to spruce them up a bit.

Which has got me wondering: do you think that MicroTouch Max really works?