hair-phobia

I am a 96 year old's watch dog.

I'm so sick of the fuckers who call trying to trick our old fart into giving away her information.  They figure out who's old and feeble, then work every angle to ambush her while we're not looking.

However, in this world of civil anxiety where there is mob flash looting, throngs of riots and utter starvation, I think my life as the g'mas guardian is goddamn good.

I was quite disturbed yesterday by watching The Real News and their segment, Austerity and the Destruction of Democracy.

It sounds pretty much like we could all be heading towards WWIII.

Do you see it out there?

I do.

good gawd get me to the dominican republic where i can live off the land and my goats ...

Yet, here I sit fretting about such small scanty subjects.

Like Papi's ever expanding leg hair.

Seriously.

My love's man hair is creeping like an ivy, up those thighs toward mi esposo's perfectly smooth stomach.  If this leg hair is any indication of what Papi's chest hair will be like, this male transformation is seeming like it's teeming with tenacity.

Now that I've been given the green light to lie upon my love's Great Breast Disappearance, I better get in there while the going's good.

It won't be a pleasure to lie on Papi's chest while coarse hairs probe to find my nostrils.

Yesterday, my love says in a panicked flutter, "I see a hair on my back!  Can you tell me if it's coming out of my mole, or just becoming back hair!!!!"

Back hair. 

oh for fuck's sakes.

"No," I said after a horror filled examination, "it's just coming out of the mole."  We both sighed with a breath of comfort.

My love then proceeds to tell me that there is a hair starting to grow on The Great Breast Disappearance.  "Can you see it!  It's right here," my love said with a smile.

"No," I said with a quick sideways glance, continuing to wash the dishes.  I didn't really look.

I didn't really want to.

All I could think about was the conversation we had after I calmed down from the anaphylactic crying session the other day.

I had accepted that Papi isn't the manly monster I thought I would be married to, when my love pipes up, "You do realize that it takes a few years before all the changes stop happening, right?"

fucking yay.

So, I just get used to the idea that I'm still in love with my butch, who happens to look slightly more masculine, and now?

Now I have to think about all of the changes I've grown used to possibly being exacerbated?

My love was in the local newspaper the other day, along with another F-M, speaking about how human resources in the work place have to make way for changes in peoples' gender.

There was Papi's gorgeous fledgling F-M face underneath someone who had obviously been going through the procedure much longer.

He was bald.

Honestly, I can't see my love being bald.  It won't look good.  When Papi would use the clippers and shave that salt and pepper hair too short, it didn't look as good as it usually did.

But bald?

Why the hell does everyone have to go bald?

Why the fuck does the face, leg, chest and back hair have to be the replacement for locks on their heads?

Seriously!!!

So, like I said.

Here I sit fretting over small little problems with hair ...

omg.  am i hair-phobic?!?!?!

... and the world is making it's way towards a modern day fall of the roman empire.

Pretty ridiculous eh?

Ok.

I have to do it at least once in my blog:

He.

There.

I said it.

Fucking baby steps.