Those of you that know me likely know that I possess a truly magnificent mane of manly chest hair. It’s in all the right places, and nowhere it shouldn’t. It’s thick and soft. And it’s even got some salt n’ pepper mixed in for good measure. I’m proud of it, and rightly should be.
So this morning, as I am often wont to do, I was going about my day with only my boxers for clothing. And that’s when my 2-year-old daughter said this:
Audrey: Daddy, you wear something.
Audrey: Daddy, I no like your… (thinks for a moment) …chest hair. Daddy, you need wear something.
Audrey then goes to the dirty clothes pile in my bedroom, pulls out an article of clothing, and hands it to me. It’s a pair of used boxers.
Audrey: You wear this daddy.
Me: You want me to wear this? But I’m already wearing boxers.
Audrey: Daddy, you wear that. Wear it so no chest hair.
So I put on a shirt instead.