I am like a curious mustache.
Full of questions.
Full of inquiries.
Full of inquisitiveness.
And sometimes, I can be really annoying with it.
Mom, why is there hair in our noses?
Mom, where do babies come from?
Mom, why are dads legs hairy?
Mom, why do feet smell funny?
Mom’s answers: I don’t know.
The birds and the bees.
Because he’s a boy.
Because they are stinky.
Well these answers led to obsessions that followed me into adulthood.
Noise hair is…weird! I mean really. Come on. How many of you haven’t caught yourself staring at someone who has a nose bush? I’m guilty. I’ll admit it.
Staring at those coarse little black hairs that are determined to peek out of the nostril. Usually it’s men but, I have seen a few women with a few peekers here and there.
And what about those little whirring round contraptions you’re supposed to shove up your nose to get rid of the peekers? Looks more like an updated version of the Egyptian brain scrambler.
Dad had one. It had this rotating head on it that was supposed to catch the hairs and trim them. He would stand in the bathroom in his whitey tighties, his chicken legs glaring in the yellow bathroom light, and shove that up his nose.
I was scared for him.
What if that thing grabbed hold of the hairs and didn’t let go?
Would he have to go to the hospital with it dangling like some mutated booger to have it removed?
Scissors don’t seem like a more appealing option either.
I sure don’t want to stand in front of the mirror and push my nose up piggy style and try and snip the peekers.
I feel that not only would I look completely ridiculous, being as clumsy as I am, I might accidentally trip and stab myself through the nose.
Free piercing people!
The birds and the bees. Where the hell did this saying come from anyways?
Birds do not mate with bees.
Bees do not mate with birds.
Maybe the alliteration made it sound nice.
I think my mother should have explained it a little further.
I went a few months believing that whenever I saw a bird or a bee, a baby would pop out.
Imagine a little blonde girl running around the yard with her hands outstretched ready to catch the baby.
Or flat on her belly in the grass peering determinedly at the flower trying to see the itsy bitsy baby from the buzzing bumblebee.
Once I realized that babies did not, in fact, come from the birds and bees, I was heartbroken.
I moped around the yard playing the “I love you” Barney song from my plastic pink Barbie cassette player.
I think this is why I am terrified of childbirth. Every time I think about a baby popping out of there I get the heeby jeebies.
What if it comes out with wings and a stinger?
Nah ah. Nope. Drug me up so I won’t care if my child is the first bird/bee hybrid monster.
Babies really should just drop out of the sky from a birds butt.
I am very sorry for this next sentence to all of the hairy men out there.
Hairy men freak me out.
Why is all that hair on your chest necessary? Why is it there? What do you do with it?
It’s weird seeing it peek out from under shirts. Makes me want to tug on it. Make sure it’s, you know, real and not some glue on Halloween stuff.
My uncle is a very hairy guy. In the summers, when we all go to the lake, I am continually fascinated by how much hair this man has on him.
But then, on the other end, it’s weird when guys have no hair whatsoever.
Like swimmers who shave EVERYTHING.
Even their butt cheeks.
How do you even reach around to get all of it?
Do they have shaving butt cheek get-togethers? Where each members brings something for the potluck along with their Schick Quattro razors?
I hate feet.
I hate my own feet. I hate my BF’s feet. I probably, more than likely, hate your feet.
They are so weird looking. And they get smelly.
Not two of my favorite combinations.
My dad used to come home, pull off his boots, and effectively clear the house.
No amount of potpourri was going to save that man from smelly feet.
I found myself wishing, at times like this, that he would just pass gas to mask the smell.
And let me tell you, the men in our family are famous for their farts.
You knew when to play outside after supper. Beans, peppers, cabbage, you name it, we were outside for a good two to three hours.
We had to replace my grandpa’s lazyboy recliner because it was impossible to get the smell out.
I would have rather smelled that, then my dad’s stinky feet.
And feet are ticklish.
I swear I am the most ticklish person on this planet.
Experts say you cannot tickle yourself, I can prove them wrong.
It’s super annoying.
And lesson! Being tickled is not fun for everyone!
I hate being tickled.
I read somewhere that the area of the brain that lights up when you are being tickled is the same area that lights up when you are in pain.
I hate the feeling of not being able to get away.
And I get mean when I’m tickled.
All reason flies it’s happy self out the window.
I will bite, pinch, and knee you in the jaw to get away from you.
Now, I’m only 5’1” and some may think “Yeah right, what is a wee little thing like you gonna do to me?”
I will tell you.
I will give you a black eye or a bloody nose.
I am also not against wedgies.
You tickle me….be prepared for underwear yanked so far up your butt crack, you’ll hear it crow.
So this curiosity has followed me into my older and wiser years.
Except my questions are little more advanced.
And yes, they are still annoying.
I mustache you a question….
But I’m shaving it for later.