Baujahr!

One of the things that happens to men as we age (women, you can tell your secrets if you want to.  Not my business) is that we accumulate hair in unwanted areas (while it abandons its homeland).  This is no secret.

What’s not spoken of is, if you’re in a relationship with a woman, she takes some sort of great, perverse joy in yanking those hairs out of you.  If you mistakenly say something as benign as, “Honey, do we have any tweezers,” you will suddenly be under what can only be described as an assault.

“Oh, I can do that for you!  I’ve been wanting to take care of this crazy eyebrow you have anyways.”

This is a lie, because it makes it sound like she’s A) doing you some sort of favor, and B) only hitting a single target.  But oh no.  You will be subjected to ten-to-twenty minutes of “oh, look at this one,” and, “my god, look how thick that one is,” and, “seriously?  That’s not even the same color as anything else on your body.  S’GOTTA’ GO!”  You just wanted your ear to stop itching, and now it’s like a barrage of pokes on your face, neck, back…  You’re standing there, eyes closed, wincing, trying not to strike a blow in return, while it feels like you’re being stabbed by a little grey mouse shouting “Touché, Pussy Cat!”
The other option is, of course, going full-on Wookie (or Ewok if you’re not a purist).

Meanwhile, here’s a robot.