My wife trying to groom me as if I were a gorilla.
OK, before she reaches over and whacks me with the paper, computer, iPad, or throws a cat at me, let me preface this by saying I love my wife more than I love warm, dry socks on a cold winter day after I’ve spent a few hours snow-blowing and shoveling. My wife tolerates the noises I make at inappropriate times as well as my “issues” with crowds, which has pretty much rendered me a recluse and not much fun to be around. Through thick and thin, after almost seven years now, we’ve gotten through some pretty tough things… deployments to Iraq, miscarriages and head trauma. She and my daughter are the best two things in my life.
About two years ago, however, I started to sprout some new friends in my life. “Flare” one might say. Most people call it nose hair. I pay no particular attention to these little whistlers, as I’m not a particularly vain person. I don’t spend hours primping myself in the mirror. I don’t have 58 “selfie” pictures of myself on Facebook. Heck, when I do find the occasion to shave the whiskers on my face, I do so in the shower and avoid the mirror altogether. I brush my teeth 2-3 times per day. One of those times is in the shower. The other time is in the bathroom sink, and rest assured, I’m not ogling my nose its illustrious nasal flare in the mirror while I’m scrubbing my incisors.
My wife, on the other hand, has taken exception to my new friends that protrude ever so slightly from my nares. About a year ago, my wife and I were sitting on the couch watching a movie and she took it upon herself to reach over and snatch one of my black beauties that had been peaking out from my nostril.
Now, I’m not sure if anybody reading this has ever had the “pleasure” of being plucked by a ninja, but it rates up there with getting a surprise paper cut in-between your toes. (Admit it…. You just got a shiver up your spine thinking about that, didn’t you?)
Since that first grab at my nose hair, it’s become a running gag in my house. Even my daughter thinks it’s funny. My wife tells me that her mother has done it to her father for years and that he just gave up fighting. It’s like she thinks it’s her second job in life to search and destroy anything that might sneak out of my nose that has a root and is implanted in my skin as though she’s a member of SEAL Team 6 searching for Bin Laden in the caves of Tora Bora.
Don’t get me wrong. I want my wife to tell me if I’ve got something hideously wrong with my body. If I’ve cut my hair badly, by all means, let me know. (Yes, I cut my own hair.) If my shirt doesn’t match, please, tell me. For the love of Pete…. Leave my 37 pieces of “Flare” alone before I go bananas. When they start whistling when I breathe, I’ll probably go thin them out.