I’m married to a wonderfully hairy man.
When we first crossed paths, his towering height caught my eye right away. Impressive. Then, I noticed his strong physique, which I found very attractive. Finally, I realized he had a rather thick layer of body hair, which I find charming, though oddly, his arms were mostly hairless. Curious.
As I examined him more closely, it became clear that he had been shaving his forearm hair—though not consistently—resulting in a perpetual stubble. Apparently, a former girlfriend convinced him that his natural arm hair was unattractive, and he took her advice to heart. My first mission as his girlfriend was to put an end to that unnecessary grooming.
I appreciate hairiness; it feels inherently masculine to me. I especially relish the primal experience of being swept off my feet by a hairy guy who grunts with effort while carrying me. I love the warmth he provides, and yes, I find comfort in his fur.
However, sharing a space with a hairy man comes with its own set of challenges, particularly in managing his abundant body hair. I’ve discovered that belly button lint is a genuine issue. My husband tends to gather significant amounts of lint in his belly button, which he casually pulls out and tosses to the floor. The resulting clumps of hair and lint tumble around our home like wayward tumbleweeds.
Our children often exclaim, “WHAT IS THAT THING?!” as they cling to me, and I calmly reassure them, “It’s just another bit of Daddy’s belly button lint.” I often find his chest and arm hair stuck to our babies after they’ve been napping on him. As I discreetly remove the hair, I remind myself: It’s not his fault; he doesn’t mean to shed onto the kids. Maybe it was a full moon last night. I also shed a lot—long, blonde hairs that cling to everything. Does anyone else face this struggle? Ugh, seriously!
Sometimes I notice hair on me after we cuddle. Lint fills the dryer’s trap, and the bathroom sink and bathtub collect stray hairs. These are all expected consequences of living with a hairy man.
What I didn’t foresee were the occasional manscaping blunders. Thankfully, they are infrequent, but when they do occur… they are unforgettable.
Not too long ago, I was in our home office typing away when I looked up to see him poking his head around the doorframe. Shirtless, I didn’t think much of it.
“Hey there.”
“Hello.”
We had a brief chat before he cleared his throat and stepped fully into the room. “I need your assistance with something,” he said. I turned my attention to him.
“I was shaving my head, you know, like I usually do, and when I was doing my neck like this,” he gestured, “the razor slipped, and well… this happened.” He turned his back to me.
I gasped. It appeared as though he was wearing an off-the-shoulder shirt made of hair.
“The razor slipped, so I tried to fix it. Can you help?”
Frozen in shock, I was at a loss for words. There was no remedy for this situation unless he was prepared to shave his entire body and start anew. I couldn’t help but stare at the furry protrusions from his upper arms.
If I were to pen a manual titled The Woman’s Handbook for Coexisting with a Hairy Partner, it would be the briefest book known to mankind, consisting of just one paragraph: Do not negotiate. Shave him down immediately. The end.
This article was originally published on July 6, 2015.
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