Waxing Poetic

Life’s not easy when you’re manly as me.
I can stink like an ox; and I’m tall as a tree.
But of all the burdens, none can compare
With that of having a chest all covered in hair.

It’s not a big deal for most of the year,
But when the hot summer months begin to draw near
Folk take off their shirts, and I start to dread
Revealing that my chest has more hair than my head.

Honestly, though, I’m not all THAT hairy
But when I notice any Tom, Dick, or Larry
Fleeced like an ape from the Woodland Park Zoo,
I hope in my heart that I don’t look like that too.

It can’t be ignored, something must be done.
I won’t set myself up for others to poke fun.
Sadly enough, there’s no anti-hair drug,
So I sought new techniques to control my shag rug.

I thought clippers might cut a tidey “buzz”,
But it made my chest hair look like tennis-ball fuzz.
Shaving leaves scruff and nair’s smell makes me ill.
And banks don’t give loans for electrolysis bills.

And when my hopelessness reached it’s climax
My good friend, D Money, said, “why don’t you try wax?”
I replied, “No thanks, that sounds kinda gay.”
He said, “My girlfriend waxed mine. Dude, try it some day.”

I argued it back and forth in my mind,
Until finally I convinced myself to unwind,
I told myself, “Don’t be a homophobe.
Heath, you’re desparate: your chest’s like a terry-cloth robe.”

Shopping for wax is a delicate art,
So I put on a disguise and went to Walmart
I didn’t dare buy just the wax alone,
So I bought tons of stuff any macho guy’d own.

I hurried back home and locked the front door,
And shut the blinds to hide my embarrassing chore.
I opened the kit and heated the wax;
With popsicle sticks I smeared it on my thorax.

I made such a mess; it dripped everywhere.
A big glob left my chest and stuck to my leg hair.
I wasn’t ABOUT to wax my legs too.
It took over an hour trying to get THAT unglued.

The kit included a wax remover
Which didn’t work for a darn: “Made in Vancouver.”
But I found what DOES make wax lose it’s stick
Butter flavored non-stick cooking spray, laid on thick.

I did this alone; I wanted no help.
Good thing I was too, ‘cuz every rip made me yelp.
It left my skin pink and throbbing with pain.
And a part of me wished I still had my chest mane.

The results seem mixed: my chest hair’s no more,
But somehow I managed to infect all my pores.
Although the hair’s gone, my chest still ain’t smoothe;
A rash now exists where all my hairs once took root.

Sure, rashes heal, but I doubt I could bare
Re-enduring the pain of ripping out chest hair.
Perhaps it hurts less round two, five, or ten,
But I don’t have the gumption to try THAT again.