Not having blogged for a while, you get out of the habit. People read my blogs primarily because of my life with Parkinson’s and, as previously reported, I am not allowed to talk about the trial. So I have plenty to say, but nothing I can.
And then ,this week, a shaft of light descended. One that has given me much amusement and is Parkinson’s related. On topic and permissible to blog about.
When you have Parkinson’s you can be frustrated at the clumsiness and restricted movement associated with the progression of the disease. Or you can see the funny side. As my chum Steve from Southampton said, when I came back from the bar with three half empty pints of lager, “watching you carry those drinks was like watching an episode of “It’s A Knockout””.
The events of this week have caused me no end of childish giggling because I have Parkinson’s.
The subject of these events? Body hair.
I am a hairy chap. I never need to use sun cream; my fur has an SPF of about 80. Now, since my body hair reached a certain length, I don’t believe it has really grown and I have never noticed it growing. Greying, yes. Growing, no. However, things have been getting out of hand in recent weeks as I have been suffering from what, I believe, is a side effect of the GDNF – rapid growth of hair and nails.
In a matter of weeks I went backwards through evolution (is that known as devolution?). This week I searched on Amazon for something I never thought I would.
A “Pubic Hair Trimmer”.
What surprised me is that it only took typing “Pubi” for the first suggested product to be pube trimmer. Not that I can think of anything else that begins with pubi, mind you.
Anyway, I chose a Remington number with many five star reviews. I ordered it, received it, opened it, and waved it around like I was Luke Skywalker holding a light sabre for the first time.
I set forth for the shower room. Like most people, I don’t have a mirror at groin height in the bathroom, so I needed to rely on direct line of sight to tell what’s going on. Problem – I have a small belly. My egg as Beka calls it. The egg was preventing my eyes having a good view of the target.
This is where the Parkie dilemma hit. Do I trim with my dominant but shaky right hand and use the other to hold my tum out of the way? Or do I trim with my less strong but steady left hand and use the shaky hand to displace the egg?
I chose the shaky hand for the “trimmer”. Better to have a clear view of impending carnage than feel sea sick trying to see what was going on.
After one stroke, of which I didn’t, in fact, have a particularly good view (note to self: egg reduction steps required), I looked in disbelief at the carpet which had formed around my feet.
I went into the bedroom to have a look in the full length mirror.
I had a stripe. As clear as the stripe across the boggin’ floor after the first mop pass in a Flash advert.
I was momentarily pleased at how straight the stripe was. But this was soon replaced with the rather uncomfortable truth that I had a bald stripe through my short and curlies.
“F*** it” I thought, went back in to the shower room and opted for the recently plucked chicken look.
Once achieved, I tried blending my baldness in with my chest fur. Unfortunately for my chest hair it was just too long compared to my now pinking up nether regions. The chest hair had to go as well, not fully, but mostly. The floor now resembled a shearing shed for geriatric sheep.
I am well designed. The boundary between my chest hair and my back hair is indistinguishable. Like the British Empire, the sun never sets on my upper torso hair. It covers every inch.
Unfortunately, my limbs are less well designed. Back hair reduction is beyond me.
Rebecca came in. She asked what I was doing. I told her, I explained my dilemma, and saw her eyes light up. With glee started on my back. I still don’t know what she did, I dare not look. But there was much giggling, some peculiar strokes and a shedload of hair on the floor.
I suspect she used the “trimmer” to write “Feed Bananas Regularly”.