I, along with the Fruit of the Murphy Loins, got my hair cut last night. I’ve reached that age where not only do they trim the stuff on my head, but they cut back the thicket sprouting from my ears and even clipped the rogues trying to escape from my eyebrows. My son once looked in my ears and remarked “now I know why you can’t hear, all that hair blocks the sound.” Hey kid, can you guess why I get short of breath easily?
I have to add male hair to the list of evolutionary puzzles along with menstruation and painful childbirth. As I get older, hair grows best where I need it least. Long after I’ve passed on my genes, it sprouts in new places that certainly provide me no survival advantages, only embarrassment. It’s changing from virile to pelt and has adopted the Star Trek motto: To explore strange new patches of skin … to seek out new places and new growth … to boldly go where no hair has gone before. And please, “it hides the wrinkles” isn’t an answer to the puzzle.
