One of my children had just completed their shower and was approaching me in another room.
“Mommy, I think I need to start shaving.”
“No you don’t. You are too young.”
“No I’m not! Just look at me! I’m getting so hairy and it’s even worse when I’m dry!”
“Nobody shaves their arms, Daryl, and men don’t shave their legs.”
“WHAT??!! Are you serious?! I’m just supposed to turn into some hairy beast?! I could become a whole new species of animal!”
The concerned child was my eight year old son. I had my back to him when he began speaking. I thought he was referring to an area that he would most likely shave at some point: his face. My natural response was Really? That baby face? You’ve got to be kidding me! So I was more than a bit surprised to turn around and see him, not rubbing his chin, but holding his wet arm up near his face and rubbing the fine blond hairs around.
I don’t think he even heard me ask “Have you seen your father?” He was too busy ranting about his pending metamorphosis into a hairy beast, which actually isn’t that far from reality if he takes after his father. My husband’s chest hair rivals that of Tom Selleck. And his beard, I’m not exaggerating, would put ZZ Top to shame. I just measured it at 18 inches from his chin. Not too long ago, he cut 8 inches to even it out, which was necessary after an encounter with an electric drill removed a chunk of it. He now routinely ties it in a knot to keep it out of his way. And he deftly tucks it under his shirt to eat.
I guess I should assure my son that he will not become a new species of animal, even if he does become a hairy beast. His father already beat him to it.