Back Hair
Back hair. You shuddered, didn't you? Few prejudices in American society are as widely held — and universally condoned — as that against the hirsute. While other traits of masculinity are esteemed, even idolized — muscular chest and arms, broad shoulders, deep voice, well-stocked Jockeys — the popular mind draws the line at dorsal foliation.
Hairshirt. Sacred undergarments. Italian sweater. (What did the Italians do to deserve this?) People who would never dream of uttering a racial slur, who leave the room when the conversation departs political correctness, feel no compunction about persecuting those whose neckline can be located in the ankle region. Need a cheap laugh? Want to portray someone as a buffoon, a barbarian , a worst-case scenario date? There's no handier shorthand than hairy shoulders.
An argument in favor of a healthy coat of fur could be made on any number of grounds — for example, as inexpensive insulation in cold weather. Through enlightened eyes, a hairy back can be seen as something poetic, even beautiful. But good sense has no purchase on visceral revulsion.
In earlier times, every member of the proto-human family was in the same thatched boat. Perhaps the hairless of today feel they are on the right side of the evolutionary trend, sharing some vestige of the scorn of the Cro-Magnon for the poor Neanderthal. Around the same time that Johnny Weissmuller's Tarzan swung his oil-slicked frame through theaters from coast to coast, Streamline Moderne skyscrapers came to epitomize the shining future of mankind. Body hair was atavistic, behind the times — not to mention a typical trait of the non-Anglo Saxon immigrants then darkening our shores.
In essence, predictably, it comes down to sexual attraction. It's to be taken for granted that women prefer sleeker, more civilized mates; and any man scorned by womankind is fair game for abuse by his co-genderists, solidarity be damned. Hors de combat, many members of the gay male community show more tolerant attitudes, even celebrating the trait in clubs devoted to Bears and their Cubs.
But appearances aside, these men are not animals; nor is their stigma the result of some crime against humanity. Unlike a mullet, a hairy back is a matter not of choice, but of cruel genetics (and yes, maybe a trace of bad karma for mocking their fathers). At one time, in the innocent blush of childhood, they were indistinguishable from their peers; then came that fateful day when adolescent pride in manly chest hair turned to horror at the eruption of whiskered epaulets, the first harbinger of a lifetime of shame.
A dip in the hot tub, a promising date, a skins basketball game — for most, these promise carefree pleasure; for the afflicted, they promise only dread. Their ears burn with the thoughtless comments of those who don't know, and the whispers of those who do. Tank tops and shoulder tattoos are out of the question. In the dark of night, the most painful torment of all is the suspicion that their disenfranchisement is justified — that it is they who should change, not society.
Strategies for remediation run the gamut of futility, from depilatory devices of mediaeval brutality to caustic yet ineffective topical applications to awkward and ephemeral mechanical means. Worse still than the itching that follows are the horror stories of the hair coming back thicker — an old wives' tale, to be sure, but would you be willing to take the chance? Permanent laser removal, held out as a miracle cure, remains beyond the means of all but the most affluent.
All that remains is to seek solidarity among other members of the accursed brotherhood — John Travolta, Robin Williams, that one guy on the group weekend with a slightly thicker saddle blanket than their own. And maybe, on the rarest of days, on some distant beach, a moment of liberation ... a T-shirt is pulled deliberately over the head, accompanied by a twinge of fear, a surge of defiance, a frisson of exhibitionism. A bold step forward, then another, leaving behind a wake of shock and derision as the surf tickles the toes, the sun kisses the pale torso, the wind gently ruffles the shoulderlocks, and just for a moment all is right in the world.
— J. Daniel Janzen (dan at clownyard dot com)
