But, in this case, there is a hairy but. Literally. I have always frowned upon men complaining about their penis length, and trust me, I've gotten a lot it. "No, don't look, we do sleep together but you can't look at my penis, it's too short!" ?! Exactly (I am very tempted to use derogatory phrases but it's lent and I'm cutting back on invectives). Why were they always so worried? As long as they were capable of satisfying me and their beloved significant others (yes, they were), where was the problem? I always had this ridiculous image in my mind of big and chunky men standing washing themselves, in their nude glory, in public showers after going to the gym or in prison. Even men in prison have the right to stare at each other's penises but I'm told that's for different reasons (Oops, I dropped my soap). The men would be standing next to each other, stealing looks at each others genitalia and thinking to themselves something along the lines of "Damn, what a package" or just stare down at their own in abashed silence (no man would ever admit to this, I'm sure). So what kind of ideal were they trying to live up to? You can "rise and shine" without looking like Everest.
Why do so many people, against whatever logical and self-assured realization still have this strange need to be beautiful and sexy and fine and BIG? Everyone has their little imperfections, a mole, a piercing. This and that. When I was 11 and we were taking pictures for the school yearbook, the photographer returned mine with a little smirk and a Hercule Poirot connotation. If you don't know, Hercule Poirot, other than being almost absurdly charming and intelligent, was famous for a beautiful moustache. So go figure. Thanks to my tan complexion and darker features, I did have a protruding moustache. Did. When I was younger I had a couple turbulent hormonal episodes in which the only thing I could think of was ridicule and wax, but after that, things settled in and truth be told, I really didn't care. So what? It was a part of me. Then last weekend, as I was leaving the premises of another flaming partay full of booze and "beautiful" people, waiting for my cab to arrive, a group of inebriated young men came my way and screamed "Hey!" my way. Upon my turning around, all I could hear was the sentence "Nice moustache", followed by a cadence of monstrous laughter. I repeated this funny anecdote to my mother the next day, and although she shared my laughter, she was the one who suggested a change. And so right then and there I decided, why not?
And today, as I am writing these words, moustache-less, I feel like a different person. Many people have already noticed and I quite ostentatibly look different. Different features of my face are more visible than others and I feel like a figurine from a wax museum. Picture perfect. Which brings me to the point. Although it might be too soon, and it will only be a matter of getting used to, what if I just should have stuck to the good old hairy me? The strange feeling of nudity that I've had since the moment of the "operation" is quite bizarre. Do people really only learn from their "mistakes" or are some things capable of being avoided entirely? Isn't it exactly those small imperfections that make people more beautiful? I have always been disgusted by artificiality and am now wondering. Did I agree out of a subconscious need to please "waxy" standards? Or was it really just a spontaneous, improvised and inevitable thing? However it is, I know that in some time I will stop wondering and be completely fine with using my dad's shaving cream. I just hope that there won't anytime soon be men racing to clinics to "get" longer penises.
"Perfection itself is imperfection"
