My friend Stan has to be the hairiest individual I’ve ever met. Or, should I say, he used to be the hairiest? Despite a careful examination this morning (bordering on the unseemly, according to him), I failed to locate a single stray follicle anywhere on his manscape. I presumed a woman involved and I was right, as Stan informed me while we dressed.
I’ve written of Stan before. He’s a divorced lawyer who’s thrown himself back in the dating pool with a vengeance. Indeed, I’ve never come across any once-married person as desperate to tie the knot again posthaste, especially after so bitter a divorce.
Stan and I played a round of golf this morning. While dressing in the locker room, I caught my first glimpse of his new streamlined appearance. Every prior time I’d seen him undressed, I had to remind myself Bigfoot’s just a myth. In fact, once while observing Stan slip a leg into his pants, I not only considered the possibility of Bigfoot’s existence but also pondered the odds of the creature obtaining a law degree and taking up golf!
I asked Stan about his bald expanse after he commented on my obvious interest: “Uh, Richard,” he said. “You’re making me uncomfortable. Haven’t you heard of a man’s personal space, particularly below the belt?”
“Sorry Stan,” I apologized, while tearing my eyes from an unusually located swath of smooth pasty skin. “But where’d your hair go? I haven’t seen a barer stretch of earth since Sherman finished with Atlanta!”
Stan excitedly replied: “Richard, I met a dynamite woman. In fact, I think she’s the one!”
“Let me guess. You were afraid she wouldn’t like a hairy guy so you shaved yourself before she saw you in the au natural.”
Not so, according to Stan: “Nah. We’ve been dating for a few weeks, and she’s already seen me in the buff. She even said my ‘pelt’ was ‘cute’.”
“Then why?” I wondered aloud.
“Each time I’ve slept over, she’s woken up congested, sneezing and broken out in hives. The other day, she finally put two and two together and came up with six.”
“She told me she’s allergic to dogs and cats, and my ‘fur’ is killing her!”
“But that’s crazy!” I exclaimed. “Humans don’t have dander.”
“I’m well aware,” Stan acknowledged, “but like I said, I think she’s the one. And shaving every few days isn’t so bad once you get used to it.”
“Wait a minute?” I interjected. “What’re you going to do if the two of you decide to live together? You’re a dog lover, aren’t you? In fact, don’t you have a beloved Golden Retriever that’s been with you for ten years; the one you call ‘my baby boy’?”
Stan sheepishly replied while staring at his toes: “You mean I had a Golden Retriever.”