The woman crashed into Marvin Schultz's life at around eight on a Tuesday. He'd been in the bathroom, yanking out nose hairs with tweezers; nose hairs were the thing he hated most about being in his thirties. He tolerated not being able to touch his toes anymore. Was merely wistful when he realized he had no business whatsoever ogling university girls. But there was something so insulting in how his body was beginning to show signs of wearing out. Hair in new places. Useless places. What was the point the nose hair? It made him doubt evolution: what possible survival advantage could there be for a thirty-six year old to grow nose hair?
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