Folliculitis

Folliculitis

By: Frederick Kazar Evans - 2004

Running through the black forest, wielding my sword with its onyx handle and serrated edge slashing at the curling branches and vines. Speeding up slopes and stammering down the hills meticulously chopping away, only slicing the growth that stood in my path. The area that I had found myself in was beginning to become so entangled that cutting through was damn near impossible. Chopping and slashing, trying to clear enough away that I might maneuver through the unsightly growth. In the corner of my eye, something had moved; stopping for a moment to catch my breath I surveyed my surroundings when from behind I was grabbed by one of the vines that I had chopped. It was the root end that had come to life and was lifting me into the air and wrapping its self around my waist slowly making its way to my neck getting ever so tighter around me.

Suddenly, off in the distance I heard an awful sound that sent shivers through my body, and that was more terrifying than being crushed to death by the attacking plant. The sound grew closer as I struggled against the plant trying to free myself of its grip. Closer and closer the sound came, shaking the plant and I. The ground began to tremble and it seemed that the entire world started to lose focus. The plants vines had a firm grasp around my neck; all seemed lost. I struggled and pulled at the vines surrounding my throat tearing at it with my fingers and pulling until I was able to get them underneath, drawing the vines away from my neck in hopes of getting air, and still the ominous sound drew even closer as the seconds that seemed like years went by.

The shaking of the ground coincided with the ever-growing sound as it approached from what seemed like every direction. So loud that I couldn’t even hear my feeble attempts to breathe let alone anything else. I struggled and struggled against all odds, as the world had turned gray around me. I could feel the vines starting to cover my entire body wrapping around my arms and legs squeezing tighter, my perception was getting wrenched into a single gray spot in front of me and still the constant sound that could stop your heart; the world began to slip from acuity; everything had gone black, the only sense I had was hearing. The only thing that I heard was buzzing.

Then light, white on either side of me, then again from behind but I had not moved my body, only my eyes. The slight smell of cocoa butter, the cold feel of porcelain against the fingers of my right hand that surrounded the hard plastic of my Wahl hair clippers, the blades of it were vibrating upon the counter top. I was looking into mirrors, four of them. I had drifted off into a daydream just staring at the face in the mirror that I’ve seen every morning, though once in a while I find myself trying to figure out if that image reflected, truly represents the person standing before it, an illusion waiting to be revealed, persona unmasked. Appearances can be deceiving.

I turned off the clippers placing it on the counter top and reviewed the shape of my hair in the mirror, I thought about my daydream; I brushed it aside like the trimmed hairs on my naked shoulders. Continuing my examination with a handheld mirror. I can’t do anything with this type of hair other than to just cut it short on the sides and keep it somewhat long on the top. It grows back so fast. Why was I cursed with this follicle nightmare?! Having to trim the hair on my head on an every other day basis. Why couldn’t I have been born with the Korean type of hair instead of this coarse Negro poof? Why do I even care? It’s not like a person’s appearance reflects their personality. Or does it?

It looks even on all sides, round on the top and flat where it needs to be and the lines look straight. Shit it looks better than when dad used to cut it with just a pair of scissors while drunk. Looks better than when (my full brother; curly hair full of product) used to cut it for me before he left for active duty. Better than when my (older half brother; now just cuts it all off) used to cut it for me when I first started high school. Sure as hell looks better than if I had paid some “barber” who doesn’t know the shape of my head to cut it for me. Cutting hair is an art form, and only a master can do his own, freehanded.

I unplugged the clippers and rolled the cord around it. Helmet head is what comes to mind. I have cut it all off on occasion, but I didn’t like what had been exposed. An Afro is out of the question. At least until I finish my contract with the military in three years then I’ll experiment a bit more. I may possibly even grow some dreadlocks, but that hairstyle has become so commercialized. Everyone seems to have them. I tried Plats once; my older sister said I had to get a perm so that she could braid my hair. The burning, I remember it so well! Like ripping the hair off your head all at once. I kept them in for about a month until the Kriss-Kross jokes began to get old and annoying.

After washing my face I opened the medicine cabinet and retrieved a pin from its cushion, I checked its point and wiped it with an alcohol pad. I closed the cabinet and inspected my face and found one of many in-grown hairs on my cheeks and neck. I proceed to go through my daily routine of pulling skin, leaning as close as I could to the mirror nearest me and targeting the hair at the best point of attack, where the hair began, inserting needle and pulling with all my strength as delicately as possible. It was a small hair but it had created a red spot on my cheek that looked like I had been shot with a BB gun. I found another just below that one and removed it; it had created a whitehead. I continued to remove a total of five or six more in-grown hairs on both cheeks; I reviewed my efforts in the mirror. Satisfied that I was able to remove the ones that I could find on my face from the areas near the corners of my mouth, chin and jawline.

I stretched out the skin on my neck pulling it with my left hand examining the areas that felt bumpy, pulling those that were, and looking closely to see if there was that tell-tale sign of a small black line that is the mark of an in-grown hair. Those on my neck are the toughest ones of all to spot. They don’t show-up that well. Only after sometime has passed and it has gotten long underneath, that its color is visible through the thin layer of skin that it had reversed into. When I do find these they are the hardest to remove, I usually don’t draw any blood, but they can sometimes hurt like hell when I rip them out, or cause a weird sensation to travel down my spine to the tip of my crack landing in the back of my thighs just at the knees before it does a one-eighty.

The length of some can be quite surprising; the longest one that I can remember had to have been at least two inches long. It was a bitch to remove. It was deep and had curled up under my skin so that it wouldn’t just slide out like normal. I hadn’t shaved my Adams Apple and the underside of my chin for a few weeks; which gave it time to dig in. I proceeded to break the skin where I could see the hair, by stabbing the needle beneath it, causing me great pain; I gritted my teeth and pulled gently, stretching the skin out with the hair wrapped around the tip of the needle, taking my time in an effort to reduce the blasts of chills rocketing down my spine like shower water suddenly turning ice cold. I had created a neck flesh tepee. That snapped free of the needle point and I could see the hair clearly in the mirror, but it was not completely out. Only part of it had emerged forming a little arch. I swore I could hear it laughing at me as a little bead of blood began to appear, just a superficial wound. This little half-breed mutt isn’t going to get the best of me. I threaded the needle through the arch, held my breath and closed my eyes.

After I yanked the hair out I opened my eyes as Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries began to play on the stereo in my bedroom. The hair began darting back and forth poking at me like a Cobra trying to bite an intruder invading its space. I dropped the needle to shield my eyes from its blind assaults; franticly I searched for my scissors with my right hand. Feeling for it on the sink knocking things about, down went the nose hair trimmer, down went the brush and hair pick crashing to the floor, I heard the breaking of glass, happy that I had my slippers on. Peaking out with one eye spotting the scissors in the bottom of the sink partly submerged in a pile of Q-tips and shards of glass. I grabbed at the possessed hair that had to have been a foot and a half long with my left hand; catching it between my middle and ring fingers, I clutched my hand around it, cutting it inches from my neck as it flayed about in my hand. I didn’t rip it out? Because plucking hair is the third worst physical pain known to man: second being smashing a finger and number one, getting kicked in the nuts. I threw it into the toilet and flushed it down while still in its death throws. I cleaned up the mess that was made and checked out what was left of that demon hair in the mirror, inspecting my face for any major damage, none there. About two inches of it remained, no signs of life; it didn’t seem to pose a threat so I just let it hang from my neck until the next day when I shaved.

Which I don’t do every day, if I did my neck and face would break out into razor bumps, and that is not a pretty site; I’ve tried all sorts of different razors: disposable kind, ones with one, two and three blades on them and even one with a serrated edge called “The Bump Free Razor” that I had purchased from a shop that specialized in Negro hair and skin care, none of which has worked for me. I’ve tried not using a razor at all, just hair clippers or electric razors; they still get too close, or not close at all. It’s nice that five o’clock shadows and scraggly facial growth are popular right now.

When I was in Virginia I met a guy that has the same facial problem as me. Until that point I had thought that only Negro’s got razor bumps and I was the only human with the in-grown hair problem that’s of the degree that I am plagued with. It surprised the hell out of me that a Caucasian male would have the same problem. We met at sick call; we both were getting shaving profiles. We shared horror stories of razor bumps and of the questions we got from people asking us what the bumps were and whether or not they hurt. We both had the same reply ‘Try shaving over pimples and tell me how that feels.’

Peering into the mirror yet again, just to make sure that I had not missed any more demon spawn. Knowing in the back of my mind that there is always one or more missed in-grown hairs vying to do battle. I put my weapons away and cleaned off the sink, and turned the shower on, while waiting for the water to get nice and hot I examined my work once more in the mirror, an artist can always see the flaws where no one else can. A doctor told me the best time to shave is right after a hot shower because the facial hairs would get soft and the edges wouldn’t be as sharp after shaving, limiting the possibility of them piercing back into skin when they grew. I stepped into the shower and shampooed out the sacrificed hairs of vanity and conditioned the spared ones. Repeating the process several times.

Glancing down while washing my chest, a few hairs here and there, with glycerin soap, realizing that I should have trimmed my pubes as well. I was beginning to look like a Chia Pet, I checked my armpits; they too could use a trim as well. I dried off in the shower, wrapped the towel around my waist and stepped in front of the mirror, again. I checked the time, two hours had passed and I’m still not done, a typical Saturday morning. If it weren’t for women we wouldn’t care what we looked like. I opened the medicine cabinet, and looked over the recently purchased daily scrub, pore cleanser, astringent, toner, moisturizer, facial mask, concealers in varying shades and a box of oil absorbing sheet packets that I ordered from a men’s web site that specialized in skin care products for the “Metropolitan Man.” I glanced into the mirror; ‘I’m a vain, self-hating half-breed. There is no end.’

ingrown hair
wahl hair clippers