Oh Pubes. Why are you? What maladies did you protect our forebears against? Why do you curl and tangle and grow unkempt, suggestive of a habitat for small species of nocturnal predatory rodent? What secrets have you to conceal, other than delicate meatparts? But mostly: why. Why are you?
I am not opposed to your existence. I almost understand. You may have at one time helped a lot, and us humans may need to call on you again someday. Have you heard about the amount of methane being released from polar melts? It’s frightening, Pubes. Frightening. None of us humans know how things are going to be on this crazy blue marble of ours. Some of our smarter people have said it’ll be hotter on average, but we don’t know if that means hotter everywhere or hotter all the time or hotter for how long before another ice age or what. Climatology is complicated. We may yet need your help to keep our genitals warm before all is said and done. If that’s even what you do. We don’t know that either.
We never talk, Pubes. What’s your story, anyway? Are you just hoping to be ignored? That makes me sad, Pubes. Are you hunkering down like a middle school outcast with a huge backpack full of Dungeon Masters Guides, trying your best to grow up while nobody’s looking? Do you take the long way from Earth Science to Algebra 2 because Ty Bradley and Jen Nuñez are in D Hall after third period and they have clippers? Is that what you are? Who are you? What are you like?
Are you bitter, Pubes? Do you want to be left alone? Or do you prefer to be coifed and fussed over? Are you the industrious type? Do you emerge purposefully from a pruning, feeling leaner and more effective and deadly, ready to take on the world and hit this two o’clock meeting out of the park? Do you vacillate between the two poles, generally preferring the tidy morning commuter look of being a fully engaged contributor to the events of the world, but in occasional dark times growing long and gnarled and wild and forlorn and reckless, like a thirtysomething shoe store clerk with nothing left to lose hitting the bottle hard after a nasty breakup with a deeply flawed person?
How do you feel about being fully removed, torn out by the root? Does that make you angry? Do you thirst for revenge? Do you go underground, torching the system until your people are free? Is one Pube waxed one too many, or will you make concessions to oversight within reason? How much or how little control are you comfortable with? Do you function wholesomely under rigorously maintained strictures, healthily but creepily thriving like a Singapore of hair, or do you rankle under the yoke of oppression?
Are you religious? Do you have a native creation myth centered on the Happy Trail? Do you think of a mass reaping as a necessary sacrifice to the Great Genital, from whom all blessings and scourges must flow? Are you ideological? What precepts do you cling to? What are the foundations of your value system, Pubes? Do you abide all slights, or are you warlike? How closely do you associate with the hairs of Belly or Upper Inner Thigh or Taint or Asshole? And in what capacity? Compromises and Treaties and Trade Agreements? Do you consider yourself a small but vital part of the greater brotherhood of hair, accepting responsibilities and demanding an equal say, or are you Isolationist?
I don’t know why you are, so I never asked who you are. We never talk. I don’t understand you, and I’m not sure you’re interested in understanding me. I want to do what’s best for both of us. I trimmed you today without even thinking about it. I’ve been Master and Sun God of your universe, and I’ve been fickle and inattentive. But is this the natural state of things? Do you strive for more? Should I give a damn about your hopes and dreams? What? What, Pubes, what?
Moisturize your skin? Sure. Yeah, sure, I can do that. Anything else? No? That’s all you have to tell me? No wisdom or pleas for mercy or... okay. You know what? Okay. Moisturize your skin. You got it, Pubes. Good talk.