When I used to think about nose hair I envisioned a down layer of fuzz lining the nasal passages, the sole purpose of which was to reduce the amount of airborne debris making its way into the sinuses. But recent developments of my own follicle-grounded strands of excreted protein has changed my perception of this phenomenon. I've recently noticed what could best be described as noselashes jutting down from the anterior part of my nostrils. While for the moment they are confined to a few light twigs, I cannot keep myself from extrapolating this trend into the future.
Imagine five years into the future, a clean-shaven, bright-eyed Aaron Bramson with rough tufts of bristly brown hair pouring out of my nose towards my mouth. Perhaps they will entwine themselves together creating a patch of darkness reminiscent of the Führer. Or, equally as likely, they will bifurcate with magnetic repulsion, wrapping themselves around my nostrils like tiny warthog tusks. In the former scenario I could get an elastic cane and play it up as a Charlie Chaplin imitation, and in the latter I could just get an eye-brow piercing and altogether raise my status among the local independent artists.
And then in another five years the bushy branches become trunks. Jutting forward like a narwhale, I could impale my enemies, mortally wounding them in the neck or eyes. They could become a favorable asset in vying for a mate, as my appearance would certainly become more intimidating to rivals. But if they were to curl inwards instead, what a constant bother they would become. While perhaps useful as constant toothbrushes, I think they would be more likely to stick in my teeth and greatly impinge on my ability to drink without a straw. If the hair were manageable, then I could comb the strands laterally, disguising my unusual outcroppings as a common mustache. Imagine the horror if at two inches in length they obtained the texture of an afro, fluffing out to resemble an upside-down furry brain about my upper lip.
Taken to the eventuality of elephantine tusks shooting out of my nose, thinking about my nose hair makes my shiver in terror. No matter how easily the hairs may be manipulated, at eight inches they will have conquered my face and sent me to change my role on the side show from the world's tallest dwarf to the quill-nosed boy. Engulfing my face, acting as baleen for my meals, clogging the drain in the bathroom and eventually getting accidentally swallowed. There I will lie, a withered heap on the floor having choked to death on my own nose-hair. What a horrible fate these first few hairs prelude.
Trim them you say? What is this you talk about snipping, cutting, and plucking? Those sorts or ridiculous activities are for sitcoms and science fiction. We men of the earth, embracing life in its solemn reality, have no time for such whimsical notions. I say, "Let them come!" I've faced the future and I have prepared myself for whatever will come of these hairs. In the meantime, where's my ruler?