THE TORTURE CAUSED BY AN INGROWN HAIR

Body hair, or shall I say, body fur, is often regarded as a nuisance and tiresome leftover (to say nothing of reminder) from eons of evolution – although, to judge from the state of our haggard planet, “evolution” is a debatable term. I am sorry to say that I was overenthusiastic with a pair of nail scissors, cropping, snipping and snapping away merrily like someone trimming a particularly shaggy hedge; I was a biped lawnmower. Unfortunately, I cut too close to the skin, and after a few days of embarrassing itch attacks which forced me to scratch myself discreetly at the tram stop, in the library and other distinctly awkward locations, I became aware of a rock-hard boil which was appallingly tender to the touch – the result of my amateur haircut. The turgid pus-filled pocket was lurking in an extremely delicate area, which, for reasons of decency and modesty, shall not be described further, and was a source of agony. It suffices to say that certain postures were fraught with unease: I had fallen a most unhappy victim to the fairly commonplace but torturous phenomenon of folliculitis. There was only one solution to relieve the pain, and it was going to involve stoicism, besides state-of-the-art medical equipment.

My paraphernalia consisted of a sterile blood lancet (usually used to ruthlessly dissect the occasional zit), a disinfectant spray, cotton buds, copious amounts of tissues and, due to the unfavourable whereabouts of the throbbing blister, a large mirror. Fumbling with the mirror, I swore rudely and crudely in four languages, even gathering the scraps of my rusty Latin (“furunculus stultus”, which means “stupid boil”) as I prepared myself for the inevitably painful mission of banishing the little pest. Lancing the blister was straightforward and accomplished in a matter of two seconds. Then, gritting my teeth, I grasped the thing between thumb and forefinger, spectacles flashing determinedly on my nose, eyes narrowed with Hollywoodian heroism. A deep breath later, I squeezed. Hard.

There was a truly sickening sliding sensation underneath my unmerciful fingers and the most disgusting pulpy pop I have ever had the misfortune of hearing, followed by a needle-sharp pain which abated as soon as the pocket catapulted its contents into the tissue.

I stared down into the tissue as if expecting to discover something of world-breaking scientific significance. The hair was tiny, thin and shrunken, curled up limply in the tissue like a thoroughly wretched prawn, surrounded by a revolting sea of greenish-greyish-whitish-yellowish pus and blood. It was a typical mountain-in-labour scenario: the source of harrowing discomfort was nothing more than a pathetic little ingrown hair. I swabbed the tender area with a disinfectant-soaked cotton bud, refreshed my stock of four-letter words and cleaned up.

I have been more cautious with the scissors ever since.