It was, by far, the largest clump of nose hair thine eyes had seen in the flesh. A county fair worthy thatch of hair protruding out the left nostril, like weeds who had found a small sidewalk crack out of which to flourish. It was mesmerizing, snow white, and honestly I couldn't stop since he boarded the train.

Because he was sleeping, he was oblivious to both my stare and the fact he had a wig hanging from his schnoz. His wife noticed my eyes. We locked pupils. She smiled and grabbed him closer, as if to say, "he's all mine" which was fine because my crotch doesn't get tighter over 65-year-old men with nose hairs longer than the train on which we're traveling.

Did I missed an episode of Fashion Police where George Kotsiopoulos explained that lengthy nose hair is in and many of the stars will be sporting it on award show red carpets this season? That seems impossible, since I NEVER miss an episode of Fashion Police nor any of the shows on A&E about wars (Storage Wars, Parking Wars, Shipping Wars and Storage Wars: Dallas) that ironically have nothing to do with actual wars.

I just couldn't stop looking, thinking and wondering while holding an imaginary conversation in my mind with the actual nose hairs.

"So what's your deal?"
"Elaborate please"
"Is this a medical condition?"
"Is he blind?"
"So this is 100% on purpose?"
"Yes. It's very European."
"Bullcrap, I've seen videos of the whole town of Europe on YouTube. No one has a founding father's wig coming out of their nose."

And then it hit me, like the guy walking up and down the aisles with a bag so big it probably has a small horse enclosed -- this man has reached the age of just not giving a damn. At that moment I went from engrossed to envious. I want to hit that point in life when appearance just doesn't matter anymore.

I'm in my mid-30's, a father of one with another on the way, and each year I put a little less effort into my general upkeep. It's not from lack of caring, if anything I care even more now because the temple known as my body is beginning to resemble a rundown apartment complex. I care but I just don't have the time to do it all. I spent the better part of my 20s gyming, tanning and laundering and now its time for napping, SPFing and still laundering because who the hell wants to do laundry?

I get, at most, an hour a day for completely selfish activities -- reading, video games or even just standing in a corner mumbling the words to the 'Family Matters' theme. Ever tried it? It's better than meditation. I don't want to spend that hour trimming all the newly grown hair on my suddenly gorilla-esqe frame.

I'm going to do just enough upkeep for the next couple of decades to keep strangers on a train from having mental conversation with my body hair. I'll make the building look liveable while it looks very lived in. After the age of 60 I can't make any promises about anything. It could get ugly. People won't know where the nose hair ends and the mustache begins.

When the day arrives I'll probably rest just as well as that man just a few seats away. So deep in sleep, and the confidence that comes with age, that he hasn't noticed my stares, his wife's gentle nudges or the fact we reached our destination minutes ago and hundreds of people are shuffling past and exiting the train.

Oh wait, his wife just called the conductor. Yeah, he's dead.

Chris Illuminati is the editor-in-chief of GuySpeed. He’s written three humor books, ruined many personal relationships and still cries during thunderstorms. His "Half a Man" column appears every Tuesday. You can read more of his work here or follow him on Twitter.