The glamorous life

We come from a hairy lineage.

By “we,” I mean my mother’s family. A hirsute bunch all the way around. Except the older men — not much hair up top. But hairy arms? Hairy legs? Hairy upper lips? Check, check and check. Both genders.

When I was 12, I begged my parents to let me shave my legs. I suppose 8-year-olds do that nowadays, but back in ancient times (1979), shaving one’s legs was a right of passage one earned when one was 13. Dad told me I could shave my legs before 13 when I could braid the hair on my legs.

I tried, I tell ya. There was enough hair there. Just not long enough.

Legend has it that one time when my late uncle was having his hair cut, the barber asked how far down the back of his neck he should shave. And my uncle replied, “When you hit my crack.”

That’s a hairy back.

My sister is visiting with her brood this weekend, and we spent the day at the Field Museum in Chicago where all things ancient, bony and saurus-like are celebrated. We ran across a reconstruction of Lucy, the famous early human ancestor, who is displayed in all her archaeological and historically significant glory.

My sister felt compelled to get a picture with this famous matriarch of the human race who, in this reconstruction, is covered head to toe in hair.

Besides the cheesy grin, see any resemblance?

And forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.

~ Khalil Gibran


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