Idiot Fondue: Case Study – #30

Yet another sordid patient analysis from my days as an un-certified pseudo-psychologist with focus issues…


Dear Dr. Brian,

  How does one begin the “excessive nose hair” conversation with one’s new boyfriend?




Dear Perp,

First, I’d like to extend to you my deepest sympathies, for even though you may still be in the exciting throes of the first tender days of newfound love, the relationship is clearly over.

No amount of counseling or careful review of women’s magazines can overcome the atrocity of a partner who does not trim adequately. Eventually, you will not be able to function in a socially acceptable manner, and the mere mention of his name can cause histrionic screaming. Save yourself the time and effort and begin making preparations to move on.

Perhaps you may find this assessment to be a bit harsh, overly reactionary and such, possibly even flippant and callous about the level of affection you have for your partner. Sadly, love does not overcome all, despite the many Hallmark movies that vainly try to prove otherwise. And love certainly does not, in the end, overcome a man who could put your eye out during a passionate embrace.

Yes, poor woman, this is not only a matter of unattractive and mortifying nasal protuberances. It is also a matter of personal safety. You could be severely injured at any time despite the resourcefulness of any precautionary measures you may take. You can only persevere for so long. At some point you will have to remove the protective body gear, and your delicate skin will be at tremendous risk, as will your soul.

In theory, of course, if your love for this man is deep enough, the two of you could agree to a romantic arrangement that is devoid of any physical intimacy. You could care for one another from afar, as it were. Perhaps you can reside in opposite ends of the house, with a glass wall firmly separating you from Edward Scissor-Nose. For some playful excitement, you can pretend that one of you has been incarcerated for an unmentionable crime, something dripping with murky malfeasance, and then proceed to express your burning lust by pawing at one another through the impersonal glass.

I must caution you, though, that this glass must be at least 6 inches thick. Those hairs are incredibly sharp, and they can cut through almost all natural and man-made materials, especially the wiry hairs that twist and turn for no apparent reason. You must remain vigilant at all times or nations may crumble.

But really, would this be any way to live, having to avoid one another at all costs? This type of emotional and physical distance is usually reserved for the later years in a relationship, where you can no longer tolerate the sight of each other, both of you reduced to using the children and your credit cards to inflict emotional wounds on each other.

You owe it to yourself to fully enjoy the traditional first years of a partnership, when you actually enjoy being around your supposed soul mate before you finally learn everything there is to know about him. (You will eventually realize he has very few redeeming qualities and that you were clearly blind in the days of wine and roses. It’s simply the circle of life.)

Now, having rattled on about all that, I suppose it’s only fair that I mention one alternate scenario which should be considered. After all, I do have some personal experience to add to this unfortunate mix. Normally, I refrain from sharing intimate details of my own experiences, unless required to do so by law or enabled by the over-imbibing of alcoholic spirits.

You see, I am also the victim of misbehaving and stealthy nose hairs. There is a degree of shame with this pronouncement, but I can sense that you are very troubled by your current dilemma. (One sign of your pain is the sentence you scrawled on the back of this letter, in Rustic Kumquat nail polish, which reads “I have dreams of porcupines and darkness.”)

However, despite my own body rebelling against me by producing hairs where hairs shouldn’t be, I am one of the 13% of people with this condition who has actually tried to do something about it. (The remaining 87% do nothing and don’t seem to care. Such behavior also explains other troubling human conditions, like politicians getting elected despite obvious mental issues, and medical practitioners who charge $600 to take your blood pressure.)

But my journey to personal body-hair salvation has been long, and the battle never ends. (In my youth and preliminary professional days, I did not have this problem. Then again, we rarely have physical problems when we are young. Everyone is beautiful and flexible, lulling us into a false sense of invincibility, a sense that is shattered as we age and things start to malfunction. This is why everyone over 40 is bitter.)

I have tried an endless number of hygiene products and devices through the years. And I have done so with fierce determination. I have shaved and plucked and scoured, trying various chemical concoctions and applying poultices, pillaging the Internet for any mechanical contraption that might offer even minimal release from my private hell.

Alas, I am always disappointed. I can get my nasal canals polished to a shine, devoid of any hint of growth. Two hours later, a hair will spring out of nowhere, stabbing downward with an audible click of spite and meanness. And this will usually happen in an awkward social situation, such as a dinner party, the least beneficial time for a sudden hair appearance, because I don’t have any of my tools with me and therefore any reparative actions are compromised.

I usually end up huddled in someone’s half-bath, surrounded by hideous wallpaper and those annoying hand towels that you can’t really use, yanking at the elusive demon hair in a frenzy of search and destroy. This, of course, is not a pleasant action, and I must lie to my colleagues and explain that my screams were the result of passing a kidney stone. On a social scale, it’s better to have crystallized objects in your digestive system rather than confess to having a nose with its own landscaping.

Anyway, my dear Perv, it is imperative that we determine the mental attitude of your man toward his nose hairs. Has he, like me, struggled in shame to deal with this overwhelming situation, all to little avail despite his good intentions? If so, you must work to save your love, assuming that everything else about him is acceptable and hygienic. If he has no idea what you’re talking about, your love is doomed.

So, sit your man down, join him on the couch if it’s safe to do so without risking bodily harm, and gently but firmly ask him. What’s up with the nose hair? If he bursts into tears, and then shows you his “special drawer” in the bathroom, full of implements and creams, then your relationship has a chance. Be supportive and suggest therapy. Perhaps you can convince Oprah to do a special report in her magazine before she gets bored and goes off to purchase the 4% of the world that she doesn’t already own.

If your mate refuses to admit there’s a problem, or, even worse, acknowledges the nose hairs and thinks there’s nothing wrong with them, possibly even having given them their own names, then you know what you must do. Begin taking the necessary legal steps to ensure that you never have to see this person again. (Speaking of legalities, it is my professional duty to advise you of a possible third reaction: He may pick up a salad fork and lunge at you, screaming something about disappointments and poor choices. If that happens, you have an entirely different situation on your hands.)

Let me know how it goes. Lanae at the reception desk has my cell phone number in case things get overly dramatic and intense. Of course, I probably won’t take your calls until your check for this session has cleared the bank, so plan accordingly…


Dr. Brian


Previously published in “Idiot Fondue” and “The Sound and the Fury”. Some changes made for this post. Story behind the photo: A snap from the Catedral de Malaga, a sign perched above a restricted inner sanctum. As I’m not Catholic, I’m not sure of the significance (the word means “prison”, basically, in Spanish), but for the purposes of this post we’ll pretend that this is where they keep the priests with poor cultivational skills…


11 replies »

    • Ah, the ear hair, three times fast. Yes, I should have included such, but as I am in the midst of grappling with a particularly vengeful crop of such, it was too close for comfort. Perhaps someday… 😉

      Liked by 1 person

  1. As an “aged” woman, the hair issue became pressing once I passed the 55 mark. No one clued me in that women, after the age of 50(ish) begin to grow beards and chest hair with a vengeance! God has a spiteful or really perverse sense of humor. I found a simple and easy to carry with me solution to the facial hair issue (I save the chest grooming for my private time). Tweezers. Tweezers are easy to carry around, a guy could presumably put them in his wallet and nobody the wiser. Then when the follicles of madness in nasal passages or chinny chin chins (where mine tend to sprout at odd moments, unsolicited, regardless of the rigorous shaving I did); one can pluck the little bastards and flush them away. Take that!

    Liked by 1 person

    • You offer great wisdom, indeed, and I accept such with sincere appreciation. But I feel compelled to point out that the personal transporting of tweezers can lead to tricky situations, namely whilst one is cavorting about in the nation’s airports. Those wretched screening people at the gates apparently consider tweezers to be a sure sign of malfeasance, and they will wrench said implement from one’s hands and hurl the demon metal into a confiscation bin. I wept openly during such a transaction in Charleston, SC….


      • Those TSA persons don’t play. Which accounts, I suspect, for their surly and oftentimes mean spirited grabbing up of things like tweezers. Yeah, I’m gonna go hijack Flight Whatever with a pair of hair pluckers. Those TSA are also selected based on their IQ, which must be below 75 (no offense to intellectually challenged individuals who never thought of working for the TSA) or no job. They give me a full body scan each time I approach a boarding gate, despite the fact that I’m in a wheelchair (CLUE: Person in chair has issues with their legs or something..and is not, necessarily a terrorist) and the fact that I am not shy about telling them I’m half metal from the waist down. I think a mandatory hearing and common sense check should be part of their annual evaluation to keep that horrible job.

        Liked by 1 person

  2. My, but you had to tackle some delicate subjects in those days. Good on you for warning her to ditch him before she gets in too deep. Hopefully she made it out before hayfever season hit.

    Liked by 1 person

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