Hair removal for men?

This week’s food for thought…unsightly patches of hair

It pains me to admit this, but amid the myriad of other bodily dysfunctions that I seem to be dealing with – the blood lactating nipples, receding hairline and sweating problem (just to name a few) – I am becoming increasingly aware of hair that is starting to sprout up in places that western society deems ‘undesirable.’ If you haven’t quite clicked on to what I am referring to, it’s my back. While the ‘issue’ remains DIMINUTIVE at current, I am of grave concern that given time it might start to resemble that of a Persian rug. As my curiosity wore on this week, I posed the question to a mate the other night whether or not I should consider having it waxed. You should have seen the look he shot me, it was as though I had just told him I had been to Thailand and contracted some sort of rash and married a prostitute. *Note to self don’t bring that up in a social situation ever ever again – seemed to be a bit of a mood killer. 

To be honest, while I have had hair on my chest for some time now, I have never really given the idea of hair removal much thought. Unknowingly I passed a comment one day that very rarely am I asked for ID (at bottle shop for example), to which I received the response “with a chest hair like that I doubt they would mistake you for a 17 year old.” Touche. . .

Plagued by further concern I did some homework to weight in on my options. It turns out there are website dedicated to this, advocating laser hair removal, waxing, shaving, hair removal cream… the list goes on. In my opinion it seems a bit much really. While I admit that unsightly patches of hair aren’t the most desirable physical qualities one can posses, and gone are the days of men showing up to work in an unbuttoned down revealing an army of hair fighting its way past the nape of their necks, I question whether hair removal should be a prevalent trend amongst men and wonder where will it stop. Will we soon be advocating leg and arms follow the Brazilian route too? Maybe give it a few years and blokes will be booking in for double bikini wax with their girlfriends/wives.  

Anyway I’m just glad its winter and I can continue to ignore the problem until the season changes, or maybe I’ll just tell myself its my body’s way of just trying to help me keep warm over the winter months.

I think we’ll leave it there for this week…

Bye for now

Cuttsy - soon to be a proud 'Persian Rug' owner

 

Happy 21st

This weeks food for thought.... the year of the 21's 

There is nothing more that I enjoy than attending a good twenty-first. Having been invited to four that all took place over the course of the weekend, I don’t know what I am going to do with myself when they’re all over. As the year rolls on, they seem to keep getting better and better. I’ve only been to one that I thought really wasn’t much to rave home about, and we didn’t stay along after a fellow party guest hurled abuse at the entourage I arrived with. That loon bag aside, there is just something unique about a twenty-first celebration. 

Unlike your 18^th where you invited as many people as you could and consumed your body weight in punch, as you hadn’t quite found an appreciation for beer nor could you stomach wine that came from a box (and probably still cant) – they posses a different atmosphere.

While these times were memorable, the 21^st seem to be more intimate, shared with closer friends.  Don’t get me wrong, alcohol still plays a large part in the festivities. I read on facebook this morning that the following was consumed at a twenty first - 180 bottles of beers, 50 bottles of wine - 60 bottles champagne, plus slushy machines with 4 litres of vodka in them, plus the old contreau /stawberry liquer/sparking wine/based punch - refilled 12 times! Then of course you could be ‘treated’ to a yard glass.

Whether it has been spent getting blotto in rotto, an afternoon fiesta up in the hills, a space themed party or soiree at a trendy bar – the 21st in my opinion symbolises the anniversary in which a person becomes an adult, plus you’re ability to drink legally any where in the world. I know that some pessimists don’t see the point in celebrating them, given that the legal drinking age is 18 in Australia, but I think its fairly safe to say that by 21 we’ve learnt a few things along the way.

But what really epitomises the celebration is the speeches. How often are you given the opportunity to hear your parents stand up in front of a crowd and admit that you have defied the odds and have become a reasonable human being and then give the floor to you’re closest mates to share some funny/embarrassing tales that may cause the older generation to cringe. It’s just a shame we don’t take more opportunities to tell our mates how much we admire their achievements and talents, but more so how much we value their friendship.

While yes I admit attending three over the weekend plagued me with zestful hang over’s that packed a punch and didn’t do much for my bank balance, I’m saddened that we don’t have many left to go. I suppose once the year is out, we’ll just have to play the waiting game for the big three zero to roll around. And after that I don’t even want to think about . . .the eulogy probably (only kidding).

Until the next ramble, bye for now

Cuttsy

"We're flocking in droves"

This week’s food for thought . . . flocking to Europe.

It seems to be an ingrained common rite of passage for the youth of Australia to flock to Europe at any given chance. I’ve just noticed recently that everyone I hold a conversation with, that comes under the youth age bracket, is gearing for an adventure half way across the world; albeit for a little as 3 weeks for some! I myself run the risk of sounding hypocritical as I too felt the sudden urgency to pack my life up into one small suitcase and swap continents for 6 months. But where did this fascination spur?

To begin with, I’d argue the media is guilty of perpetuating the idea of Europe as this sort of mythical place – ‘Euro-topia’ - an escapism that permits us to leave the woes of everyday life realities behind. This, along with being constantly bombarded with cheap airline offers that are too good to refuse. Chasing some motherly wisdom on the subject matter, I quizzed Pauls her on why her generation didn’t flock in droves. Her response was issued with a blank stare, and a response along the lines of “because we were focused on securing a job and gathering enough money for a deposit on a house.”

This idea of security seems to have been lost in translation over the years, as this doesn’t seem to be resonated in the attitudes of generation X. Instead of embarking on our chosen career path after slogging it out at uni for three years plus, we’re too busy working 3 jobs and scanning the pages of Contiki brochures and the likes and convincing ourselves it is perfectly reasonable to be earning a measly 5 pounds an hour working in an English pub; at the end of the day you’re in Europe. Students who defy the norm really have no excuse for not finding jobs as its most likely that half of their graduating class has scraped together what few dollars they have and are busy drinking sangria in Spain or destroying brain cells in Amsterdam.

But while yes it may destroy you financially, it’s hands down the best experience I’ve ever had.  So here are my tips for a European hiatus:

• ·      Get your hands on some Valium or sleeping pills, 20 hours in an aeroplane can be soul destroying –even for the seasoned traveller. I’d also suggest a neck pillow.
• ·      Get a handle on your jet lag straight away, as it can put you out of sorts for a while.
• ·      Ensure you have the correct travel insurance  - this is a must.
• ·      Splurge out and buy yourself a proper backpack. European architecture seems to have a fascination with stairs and nothing is worse than lugging a suitcase up 8 flights of stairs. Wheels don’t come in too handy.
• ·      Read hostel reviews very closely and be prepared be sharing a room with 12 other strangers.
• ·      Furthermore, be prepared to be woken up at all hours of the night as your fellow roommates stumble in (as those poor girls in Ireland learnt after I woke them up asking for a plastic bag after my mate projectile vomited on the back of a fellow patron, and all down the front of his clothes).
• ·      Pack some earplugs, as you’re most likely to come across a snorer. Thongs for the shower wouldn’t go astray either.
• ·      If you’re travelling to a country where English isn’t their first language, learn the basics. I learnt the hard way in France trying to order a bottle of water. A lot of blank looks were exchanged after I attempted to explain it to her in what started to look like a game of charades. Its ‘l'eau’ in case you’re wondering… and no I ended up with a bottle of sprite instead.
• ·      Ensure you have the correct train tickets and do not end up on a high-speed train when you haven’t paid for it. As you may run the risk of being taken to a Dutch police station.
• ·      And lastly, but most importantly, smoke and drink and much as your dwindling bank balance will allow. 

Anyway that’s my two cents worth for this week. To any of the lucky ones migrating to Perth International Airport in the coming weeks, have a smashing time and say hello to my good friend Europe for me. I look forward to hearing your stories.

Bye for now,

Cuttsy

The dog days are over

This week’s food for thought . . . the loss of a family pet

While indulging in my usual facebook binge earlier this week, I stumbled across a fellow facebooker who was grieving the loss of their dog. For many of us the thought of having to say goodbye to a beloved pet is unfathomable. Over the years I was too naive to apprehend that my slightly overweight 12-year-old Labrador - emphasis on the ‘slightly’ – would not outlive me. What we thought was going to be a bout of the old dog flu, in fact turned out be canine lymphoma. As you can imagine my obscure reality was quickly shattered.  Firstly often do you hear someone saying that their dog has a cold (NEVER) and secondly it hadn’t even occurred to me that dogs could get cancer! I give you permission to roll your eyes at my idiocy. A further blow was delt when told his life expectancy would be a maximum of 60 days! A life changing moment for our family. Now I’m sure there are some pessimists out there thinking “its only a bloody dog” but like your attitude to crocs, you have missed the mark once again.

Unfortunately poor Bailey never quite made it to those 60 days, falling just two days just short of his 13^th birthday. Like many people had told us in the days leading up to his death, he would let us know when he would be ready; strangely enough he did. On a bitter cold morning of August 19 even a plate of toast was too much of an indulgent stretch. For those who have ever owned a Labrador or encountered one, you would know they cannot simply resist the slightest speck of food. As emotions ran high, the final trip to the vet was made. This is where the reality of the situation became apparent and our tear ducts copped a battering. Slowly as the contents of that magic green needle diluted into his blood stream we watched a beloved family member drift slowly away, pain free. The same could not be said for the three of us wailing away.

So to the animal that roamed our backyard for 12 years and 363 days (with the exception of thunder and lightning), rest in piece you beautiful thing!

Bye for now,

Cuttsy