Getting to Know Dave's Body: Part 1 of an Ongoing Series

I woke up this morning and stumbled into the bathroom to shower before going to the office. Seeing how I sleep through the night wherever I end up passing out, I'm occasionally welcomed to a new day by temporary but strange imprints on random places on my body. For example, falling asleep using corduroy pants as a makeshift pillow produces interesting results; one time I had an imprint of the Virgin Mary wearing a sombrero.

This particular morning I checked my elbow and found a curious new companion. Not a fair weather friend of an imprint that debuts with much fanfare but disappointingly fades away, but rather a growth of curious proportions. Amongst the vast wasteland of scar tissue that is my right elbow rises this rebellious upstart of a hair:

Verily, this growth has fuzzy neighbors of the same brethren, but its size and location are extraordinary. It's as if at conception, the hair's elders pointed a labor-worn finger into the vast wilderness of Elbow Scabion Majora, and said 'Go forth my child, into the undiscovered country and prosper for generations'.

Taking this edict as its manifest destiny, this young pioneer ventured forth through the desolate plains of deceased hair follicles wiped out long ago by catastrophic skin abrasions, to arrive upon its Zion, a fertile oasis of prosperity the likes of which rival the mythical lands of Rogaine.

With no one to rely upon other than itself, this upstart has skyrocketed from obscurity to ultimately tower supreme over its lesser kinsmen that chose the safer and well-trodden realms of hairdom. As its keeper, how do I reward this hair's bold streak of independence and tenacious toil in such an inhospitable precipice as a weather-worn elbow?

As it is the natural instinct of any man-child, I reached for the bottle of lighter fluid resting next to the Pantene hair gel. Contorting my body so that the lit match in my teeth is within the line of squirt of the lighter fluid bottle in my left hand, I looked at the renegade hair's reflection in bathroom mirror. What did I see?

I saw my child. As a man I will never experience firsthand the hassle, I mean, the miracle of childbirth, therefore I must treasure such abnormal growths as my own grotesque parody of procreation. It pales in comparison to the feat accomplished by real mothers, but cherish the moment I will.