We Rosenbergs (Man/Woman/Child/Canine/Feline) are a hairy group. I could vacuum our home daily and still tread on a thin carpet of fur, even in the tub. I do not vacuum daily but what I’m saying is, I could and it wouldn’t help much.
Consider this, future houseguests: There is always, and I mean always, the classic, suspect hair clinging to our soap. You have no way of knowing which man or beast it originated from or which region of their body. That’s the sexy guessing-game we play at our house. Want in? Ditto for our butter dish. There. I said it.
I have hair of the too long and apparently quite powerful variety. Its strength has been tested. The dog has on occasion, (perhaps mistakenly) ingested my hair. Evidence: We have spied her hopping nervously through the yard being trailed by what appears to be a floating poop. Upon closer inspection (always a good time) we see that the poop clod is actually dangling daintily out of her pooper by one, long, ribbon of my glorious mane. Those strands are strong. That’s just good genetics everyone.
When I referred to the dozen or so large-ish dust/hair bunnies that were found hiding under the couch as a “kitten farm” small Bob promptly started naming the “kittens.” We frown on this behavior.
My gorgeous-genius husband is uber-hairy in the tradition of Alec Baldwin, Robin Williams, and the Geico Cavemen. Jeff will tell you that the disappearance of hair from the top of his head has been inversely proportional to the rapid spread of hair on his everywhere-else. At one point in his late-twenties he attempted the trendy “clean look” with a little overly zealous man-scaping down there. He describes the result as looking like he was wearing a bear suit with a hole in it.