Shaving For The Party

I am attending a swimming party this Saturday.  Sad, but true – this may be the only swimming I do all summer.  At the beach I occasionally try to get the chihuahua to take a few steps in and half of my foot gets wet.  But that doesn’t really count as swimming.

Also, sad but true – I will have to do a bit of a shave down before the event.

As a blonde I get away with a few things that dark haired unfortunates don’t.  Like eyebrows.  Some dudes have to keep their eyebrows in check because they grow together, or too bushy, or whatever.  I don’t know by that.  Mine can do whatever they want.  They kind of blend in with my skin tone.

Also, stuff like chest hair.  Again, some men like to trim that stuff up.  Totally not necessary if you’re blonde.  I’m probably hairier than most, but if you look at it dead-on, like a chameleon, it blends in with my non-existent pectorals.  From a side view, sure, it’s a mess.

And, do I have a hairy fanny?  I have no idea.  I believe that it is, just by texture, but I’ve never seen it.  I have to look in the mirror and twist around.  That’s a bunch of work for something that nobody can see.  If it’s a thicket back there, it’s a pale thicket.

However, one thing I do have to do, and I’m not proud to admit this, is to shave the top part of my shoulders.  Here’s why.  When hair grows up, out, and above your body, you can see it, no matter the color.  So, for the first time all year (and probably the last), I’m running the Mach 3 over the shoulders.

The biggest downside of being blonde is skin color.  You never see a super-tan blonde guy.  We just get red.  Since I ride my bike twenty miles a day, by the end of the summer you can definitely see where the shorts end and the suntan begins.  I do darken up.  But even still, it’s fifty shades of pink lighter than an Irishman.  By the way, I hope that author doesn’t name his sequel  Fifty Shades of Pink Lighter Than An Irishman.  I have a feeling that wouldn’t sell.

So, even though I’ve logged more time in the sun than most, I will still be the gross pale guy at the pool.  I know, not a big deal.  Except it is, because in my mind  being translucent is not visually appealing.  I used to joke that the only color I get are cherry angiomas.  Google it if that didn’t make you laugh.

And I’m insecure about it.  While I have no insecurities about meeting strangers at a pool party, being the pale guy is uncomfortable.  And yes, I know that nobody is looking at me, and nobody cares anyway.

I’m thirty-six, relatively happy, not much into what’s superficial  , with a fantastic woman in my life, and pretty comfortable in my skin.  Well,  in  my skin.  Not the color of it.