A Man with Excessive Nose Hair
Gregor relished the forests of nose hair growing in each of his nostrils. Gray-white stalactites hung from his two fleshy caves. Upon first glance, one would assume that these overgrown patches of nasal hair were the result of an old man’s neglect. They weren’t. Gregor was, indeed, an old man, but the hair was intended. Gregor had relished these fluffy extremities since they’d sprouted decades ago. They encapsulated his essence. Gregor was “that man with excessive nose hair” people would stare at while walking down 7th Avenue, and he loved it.
The rest of Gregor’s face was impeccably shaved. Gregor took great pleasure in clipping his non-nasal follicles. A clean-shaven face allowed his nose hair to be the center of attention. He never once plucked, pruned, or scissor-trimmed any facial hair north of his philtrum (the divot above his lips).
This wasn’t just about appearance to Gregor. He found a deep companionship with his gray-white friends. Gregor treated them like inexpressive spawn, fawning over them from inception to detachment. He even commissioned an apothecary on 81st Street to design a line of nose hair accoutrements. Oils, balms, perfumes. If one ever had the opportunity to get close to Gregor’s nose, they would enjoy a waft of woodsy musk.
But no one got that close. Gregor was the only soul to know the delight of his nasal scent.
For much of his life, Gregor held hope that he would find a partner who supported his obsession. He fantasized about a woman who would find beauty in his commitment. He dreamed of the day he could dispense an equal amount of love to both his nose and a woman. That partner never surfaced. This was only a slight disappointment to Gregor. He still had the companionship of his follicles. His nasal friends were a firewall against the pains of loneliness.
Then came the cancer.
Treatable cancer. But cancer nonetheless.
As with all cancers that involve chemotherapy, hair loss was inevitable. All too soon, Gregor’s friends would depart this life.
At first, Gregor collected as many of his fallen comrades as possible, unable to let go. He presented these loose hairs to the local wigmaker in the hopes that the wigmaker could assemble them into a nasal wig. A “nerkin,” the wigmaker called it. But it couldn’t be done.
Four weeks into chemo, Gregor’s gray-white life partners had vanished. His nasal passages felt bare, exposed to the elements. He was naked. Physically and emotionally. He spiraled into despair. What a fool he thought himself to be, for only a fool would devote his life to something impermanent.
Gregor was conflicted — this chemo, this poison, was giving him life. But it was simultaneously stripping him of his sole reason to live. During chemo, he would often stare at the IV taped to his arm. This IV was the enemy. He could rip out the needle, rid himself of the poison, and begin again. Fresh. It would only take a few months for his nasal cavities to be full again.
Gregor missed his friends. Not only that, but he longed for a purpose. A calling. He was no longer an old man with excessive nose hair. He was now nothing more than an old man. So, he decided it was time to be done. He placed his hand on the IV and began to pull.
“Hey, handsome.”
Someone spoke to him? A woman, no less. “Handsome” was not a descriptor generally used in reference to Gregor.
“Yeah, you. I’m talking to you.” The words came from a woman who sat three chairs down. She was in her 70s, probably a few years younger than he was. Like Gregor, she was hairless. A scarf covered her bare scalp.
She continued. “Can I sit beside you next week? I’m kinda lonely.” The intention behind the words was clear, but the strength of her voice was faint.
Gregor averted his eyes from hers. He was unpracticed in the subtle art of flirtation.
She didn’t care. “You don’t have to answer, sweetie. I’ll see you on Wednesday.” The nurses removed the needle from the woman’s arm, and she shuffled out.
Gregor let go of the IV.
At Gregor’s next session, the woman sat next to him. Without any introduction or pretense, she began talking. He listened, keeping his gaze forward. He studied the hospital room’s faded beige wall, analyzing its cracks and faint stains, anything to not look this woman in the eyes. Not that her countenance was unpleasant. Quite the opposite. She was unique, confident, the wrinkles around her eyes conveying a past that was filled with more laughter than tears. His aversion to eye contact came from a place of fear — what if his eyes revealed a part of him that would push her away?
So, to be safe, he looked forward as she talked. Her topics covered politics and art. Lovers and ex-lovers. The past, present, and future. She talked of the world that was when they were young. And the world that will be when they are gone.
Near the end of their session, Gregor only managed to gurgle out a few words: “I don’t normally look like this.”
She smiled and whispered, “Guess what? Neither do I.”
And so it continued. Week after week, she talked, and he listened. As their relationship grew, Gregor felt more confident in his interactions with her. After four sessions, he felt comfortable presenting his face to her as she spoke. Not necessarily eye contact, but close enough. They knew each other by their last names — Mr. Kugelman and Ms. Arthur. Gregor liked how Ms. Arthur said, “Good day, Mr. Kugelman,” as the sessions started. It was charming in an old-world way. It reminded Gregor of how his parents had referred to other parents.
Eventually, they both became too nauseated to talk, so they only held hands. A small physical motivator to disrupt the monotony of chemo. Sometimes Ms. Arthur would give Mr. Kugelman three quick squeezes. Gregor didn’t know the actual verbiage associated with her squeezes. He assumed it was her way of saying, “Hey, handsome.” So, he would squeeze back.
Ms. Arthur’s treatment ended two weeks before Gregor’s. As they removed the needle from her hand, she turned to Gregor and strained to whisper, “I hope to see you around, Mr. Kugelman.” She attempted to kiss him on the cheek, but it was too difficult for her to bend. So she kissed the palm of her hand and gently touched it to his cheek.
Gregor held it there for a moment. He responded, “I don’t normally look like this.” They both smiled. And she left.
Chemo felt lonely without Ms. Arthur. Two weeks with no hand to hold. Gregor would stare at the faded beige wall, losing himself in the memories of her. Her stories. The heat of her hand as it cupped his. Her palm pressed against his cheek. He thought about what she might be doing at that moment — strolling through the park, sitting in a cafe, reading a book by the light of a window. But deep down, he knew she was resting in bed, recovering. It would be weeks before either of them would have the strength to find each other.
When he finished his treatment, Gregor made a difficult decision. He wouldn’t allow his nose hairs to return. While Gregor missed his gray-white life partners, he longed for Ms. Arthur’s hand even more. And, upon the rare chance that he would see Ms. Arthur again, God forbid she wouldn’t recognize him.
After some time, Gregor gained the energy to venture out on his own. He walked to the apothecary on 81st and placed $50 on the counter. The apothecary collected Gregor’s usual accoutrements, but Gregor interrupted. “One nose hair trimmer, please.” The apothecary paused, almost stunned, before finding the finest nose hair trimmer in stock. Gregor inspected the product.
“It seems quite self-explanatory, yes?” The apothecary demonstrated its use.
Gregor developed a new routine. Every day, he would trim the entirety of his face, including his nose hairs. Never missed a follicle. Then he would take an afternoon stroll. Each stroll would have a superficial goal (let’s get today’s paper, I could use a cupcake, the weather is different), but they were all within the broader context of making a coincidental contact with Ms. Arthur.
Weeks went by.
Gregor found himself circling the hospital where they’d had their treatment. Maybe she would need to go back for a follow-up appointment. But no Ms. Arthur.
The weeks became months, and Gregor’s enthusiasm waned. He longed for companionship. He tugged at his nose, a slight tick that he had developed after the treatments. It was at this moment that he felt a twinge of pain he’d known long ago — the pain of a follicle strained by the force of two fingers. Gregor ran to the mirror and, to his surprise, one long hair exited his nostril. A lone hair that had evaded the blade for months. Gregor touched it. Firm, curled to the right. One little hair, all alone, desperate for friends. At that moment, Gregor placed the electric nose hair trimmer into a box and slid the box under his bed. If he couldn’t have the company of Ms. Arthur, he would allow his gray-white friends to rejoin.
Gregor returned to his old routine. No plucking, no pruning, and no scissor-trimming anything north of his philtrum (the divot above his lips). In that routine, he felt a piece of himself return. The calm that accompanies familiarity. No longer would he look twice when passing a mirror, wondering who the man was on the other side. Now, he was Gregor again.
He still thought of Ms. Arthur before sleeping at night. He still dreamed of the day he could dispense an equal amount of love to both his gray-white friends and Ms. Arthur.
One day, after a short trip to the apothecary for his nasal accoutrements, Gregor sat on a bench in the park. A brief respite from the stillness of his apartment. Snow began to fall. Gregor watched as couples strolled by, hand in hand, delighting in the majestic romance of the first snowfall. He considered heading home. Cold temperatures created unpleasant circumstances for his stringy comrades. The condensation created a frozen tundra in his nostrils. But he stayed, thinking of Ms. Arthur. Gregor placed his hand on his own cheek. A futile attempt at recreating the most significant moment of human interaction in his existence. He knew he couldn’t replicate the warmth of her hand, but it helped the memory feel slightly real.
And that’s when she appeared.
A stout woman with silver hair and eyes that conveyed a past filled with more laughter than tears. Above those unforgettable eyes rested two creatures, the likes of which Gregor had never seen. He was awestruck. Gregor’s jaw slowly dropped as he gazed at the thickest, curliest, bushiest eyebrows he had ever come across. The eyebrows were so massive, they had fused together to become one mass of white-gray forest. Gently falling snow gathered on top of the eyebrows, emphasizing their girth.
“Hello, Mr. Kugelman.”
Gregor stood and extended his hand for a shake. A formal gesture of two people re-meeting after some time. She took his hand in hers. He didn’t want her to know how overjoyed he was at this moment.
But she did.
