There is a particular indignity that accompanies the male body in it's inevitable decline, a slow betrayal that begins not with some great calamity but with small, ceaseless irritations. Among these is the burgeoning menace of nasal hair. Strangely white, twisted and wiry, and possessed of a perverse will to grow, this is among the most maddening of things. For a man in his late sixties, the nose becomes a battleground, not of respiratory illness, grave affliction or extra sensitivity to bad odours; but of a constant, ticklish discomfort, as though nature had conspired to mock his remaining dignity with each curling filament.
No sooner is the nasal hair trimmed, sometimes with trembling hands in awkward scissor moves, sometimes with infernal little barber driven machines (not so often), than it sprouts anew, poking and prodding from within like the rude laughter of time itself. It is like a drunken reminder, trivial yet persistent, that the body is no longer one’s own but now a kind of overgrown garden, demanding maintenance yet offering no real reward.
I have no theory on this other than to blame such growth spurts on cheese, wine and the poor ventilation of the soul.
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