[Dedicated to Andy Rooney.]
Nobody wants to talk about pubic hair. In one of my favorite war movies, "Kelly's Heroes," Willard scratches his upper torso when he says he thinks he has the crabs.
Indeed, why should the best of spouses, lovers, or housekeepers ever truly suspect its provenance, whatever its color or degree of curliness? Dye happens. OK, if it's a crime scene, bring on the DNA detectives, but otherwise...
And yet inevitably we must encounter it, especially when it's likely to be our own. There it is in the shower. Or we brush it off our bed, or our toilet. I suppose there are those who are unable even to notice it, whether through indifference or poor eyesight, but as of yet I fail to fall into that category.
Indeed, one may fabricate a worldly philosophical theory of acceptance which also forces one to sit still for mosquitoes. Well, I can't do that. The fact is, occasionally I take the time to clean up not only the stray pubic hair, but also those tiny bits of turd that tend to scatter around on the floor while wiping my butt.
I am what I am.
May 14, 2026.