Monday, April 11, 2005

A Nasal Twang

There is always a danger of lowering the tone. That said, for the tone to be actually lowered, a certain altitude would need to have already been reached. These are early days in the life of this Blog, so I should be pretty safe here. Safe in the knowledge that any fall will resemble a minor blip on the graduated success radar rather than a freefall off the scale into early oblivion. So I shall continue.

One of my favourite post subjects during my first ventures into blogging over here was in creating indexes and comparative definitions of examples of life's little social inconveniences. One could go very far indeed with this theme. And in time I probably will. But at that time I only went as far as grading yawn types for example. These (I reasoned) range from the polite stifle, sometimes required when there's a need to exhibit a feigned interest when a yawn would blow cover: mouth clamped but ears and eyes opened to allow relief which resulted in ear splitting, eye popping, head-blood starbursting consequences; to safe from view yaw-gapers, stretched limbs and spittle-rattle, throatlining flavoured exhalations.

Or the sneeze. From the decorous, 'I don't need to draw attention to myself' (useful for weddings, funerals etc), strangled at birth, caught and nipped with the specially summoned but unused efforts to cope with it, carefully and silently vented through the mouth and placed on some biological back-burner for later; to the grand-stander, a loud cathartic explosion of noise followed by much nasal musicality and busy wipings and dabbings. Probably best displayed whilst sat up in bed. Alone.

But I never got as far as nasal hair. Something all men will, sooner or later, have to address. Leaving it, (them) - 'don't interfere they'll only get worse'- is just not advice to be taken without laughing uproariously. Left, they see the field is clear. Left, they flourish and luxuriate in the knowledge that they have no natural predators. Thrive, grow fat. Lengthen. They marry each other, for ever entwined, have family and encourage their offspringers, the little wiry sproutlings, never, ever to leave the nest. The nest.

Trimming is almost as futile. Battery operated mini-cutters, sized, shaped, designed for all those (well most) orifices where unwanted hair grows. Flick the switch - up the nose, rattle-splinter- churn, a stench of burning and a few whiskery hair-ends laughing back at you from the sink bottom. A trim. Nothing more. A little nasal topiary. Individual fronds now consolidated, bush like. Not the sort of bush a man wants. Perhaps the only one he'll have if he doesn't tackle the problem properly. Man-like.

Tweezers. Geezers with tweezers. The only true solution. The only guarantee of the holy-grail like achievement of a man with a glabrous nostril. Tweezers up. Feel that metal, grab that wire-like interloper. Yank. Observe your catch. Anything up to a full inch. The stiffest hair not found on a pigs back. Fuse-wire. And a root. The root cause. The first one out hurts. Hurts like Hell. But by some amnesty of the nerves some biological pact, the pain of the first extraction anesthetizes all subsequent removals. Then it's clear out time. Boot filling time. Time to de-hirsute the nasal airways.

And there goes the tone.

Your writing has a certain something which amuses me.
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