Two weeks ago, as you may remember, we left our intrepid hero in the doctors surgery, pulling his trousers back on, feeling slightly violated, and left with those haunting words … “You’ll need to shave before you come back”.
So … ’tis the night before The Op, and all through the house, not a creature is stirring … apart from me, sat starkers in the bath, reading the instructions on a “Veet” box and feeling vaguely ridiculous.
Having ruled-out the possibility of shaving with a razor (as I’m far too clumsy), I have already pruned the more dense areas with a pair of my wife’s scissors she uses for her knitting (she’ll be hopping mad when she finds out) and in doing so I have created a furball large enough to wear a collar and be taken for walkies.
For a smooth, polished finish, I am now considering Veet. I read the instructions, looking out for subtle hints (like “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DON’T PUT THIS ON YOUR BOLLOCKS”). I find no such warning. My wife has already assured me it’s fine on “sensitive bits”, and has told me to stop acting like such a fairy and slap the stuff on.
I choose the cautious approach, and dab a small amount on a “test” area. Expecting intense burning and predicting the headlines in tomorrow’s local-rag (“NAKED LOCAL MAN STARTLES HORSES WITH HIS GLOWING RED PLUMS”) I prepare to do handstands in the shower.
The burning never comes, so I slap the rest on. It’s cold.
I am quite a hairy person. Deciding against doing my whole body for consistency (ignoring my wife’s “helpful” suggestions) I choose to limit my experiments in personal-topiary to only the necessary area.
In the absence of any photos … how best should I describe it to you? Well, if you could imagine an aerial photograph of an aeroplane crash in the middle of a forest … yep, just like that.