You’ll be surprised to learn that I’m one of those people who enjoys lancing ingrown hairs. Not just ingrown hairs, I like to pop blisters, pimples, abscesses, wens, whitlows, boils, carbuncles, cankers, and cysts, but I especially enjoy leveling ingrown hairs. I’ve been waiting six years now for my girlfriend to get an ingrown hair, but she won’t. I’ve sat up by cellphone light, shaving odd parts of her body while she sleeps, in the hope that at least one reemerging hair will turn in on itself, become infected, and fill with flaxen puss. So far my nocturnal barbering has yielded little more than shame, but I keep toiling away, hoping for the mother lode.
An old girlfriend of mine found an ingrown hair right where her inner thigh met her Volkswagon hood, and, after convincing her that there was no way she could do it herself, I had her lie down while I set to work bursting the ugly little bugger. It was raised from its crevice like a tiny volcano, and its pale yellow head was- and I’m not exaggerating- the size of an M n’ M. I’d hardly touched it before the puss began coiling out like piped butter. It was completely revolting, utterly abhorrent, disgusting, but, God as my witness, it was absolutely glorious and I relished every second of it.
Some of you may think I’m sick, but I’m willing to bet a great deal more of you joyfully trawl one another’s backs for blackheads on a regular basis. It could be worse; at least you’re not fucking horses.

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