Op-Ed
Achested Development
Straight No Chaser
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I have a hairy chest. Torso rug, ChestroTurf, or bubes — call them what you will, but my pectoral tresses make me tan very unevenly at the beach.
Early humans developed body hair for warmth and to disperse sex pheromones to attract mates. Unfortunately, the only things I’ve ever attracted are 450-pound gorillas, miniature mythological forest gnomes, and overly enthusiastic lawn mowers.
Last Winter Break, I planned a trip to Puerto Rico with dreams of warm waters, promiscuous bikini-clad beauties, and a commendable local willingness to serve mojitos to 18-year-olds. But I decided I would begin the trip with a literal clean slate: I would wax my chest.
Having no idea how to go about this masochistic ordeal, I enlisted the help of ten or so friends, each one lining our dorm’s hallway, eager to gape at the freak show that my life had quickly become. I have looked into the very bowels of men’s souls, and I have seen nothing but merciless sadism and rot. Friends who were supposed to comfort me and provide me with moral support regressed immediately to their primitive ways, transforming from Ivy League scholars to a pack of ravenous hyenas, fighting for the first crack at violently tearing the hair from my flesh. After the wax had been microwaved into a scalding goo, I trudged to my designated waxing position in the center of the hall, just as Jesus trudged to the Cross. Except that instead of sacrificing myself for the sins of all mankind, I was having my chest waxed. The nervous excitement grew to a feverish pitch as the first strip was applied to my body. My heart raced as I braced for the pain. All grew silent as the first ripper took hold …
White-hot agony exploded throughout my entire body, much as a runaway freight train would explode through a cardboard orphanage. My vision spotted and I could barely hear the cackling peals of laughter. Bent over and reeling from the torment, I was straightened up to provide a clear view for the cell phone cameras.
But I persevered: the painful process was repeated at least a dozen times more. My chest was indeed silky smooth by the end of the session, but it was also entirely bright red, polka dotted by many purple globs of wax stuck to my skin. I applied mineral oil to remove the stubborn wax from my torso, a choice that I would soon grow to regret.
Two days later, after I was finally able to put a shirt on without wincing, I noticed that the “spa treatment” had not lasted as long as the packaging advertised. Baby hairs peaked from their follicles, beginning their full-scale invasion of the sprawling plains of Mychestia. I was perfectly willing to let my shag pad grow back, except that with a continuous stream of parties, pools, and other events potentially involving the removal of my shirt, I couldn’t afford to look like a human size Brillo pad with bristly, half regrown hair. Slightly older and wiser, I rejected the idea of re-waxing, and ruled in favor of shaving until a time when I could re-sod in peace and privacy. For months a secret battle raged beneath my shirt, a battle between hair and razor, between nature and man. Nature was winning.
While the Keratin Wars waged on, more trouble was brewing. The mineral oil I applied had caused extensive breakouts on my chest (the dreaded Chestne). As a result, I chose to begin taking the infamous Accutane to clear up my blemishes. For those who haven’t heard of the Tenacious A, imagine if pimples were snakes on a plane. Accutane would be Samuel L. Jackson. Sound too good to be true? It is. Tenacious A has been known to induce psychosis, horrible birth defects, and incredibly dry lips. I didn’t go on a homicidal rampage or birth a compromised child, but the corners of my lips were so scaly and cracked that they sometimes bled when I opened my mouth.
The irony, of course, should be evident to even the stupidest of readers: despite a chest as glossy as President Skorton’s fivehead, my lips were so scaly that I couldn’t even kiss the parade of consensual women of legal age who lined up outside of my door.
Months later, my skin is finally clear and furry, as it should be. Whilst sifting through spent waxing strips and chest hair in the trashcan of experience, I learned something. Our natural form is beautiful, and it is futile to alter this beauty. We should learn to embrace unibrows, nose hair, and leprosy. Not hide them away. Let’s learn from Chia Pets and let our hair grow.
Daniel Eichberg is a sophomore in the College of Arts and Sciences. He can be reached at deichberg@cornellsun.com. Straight No Chaser will appear alternate Wednesdays this semester.