Friday, October 4, 2013

I don't remember buying this hairsuit.

WARNING:  Adult language in this post

I never used to be this hairy.  I mean sure, I had the pubes, I had the pits - I shaved - below the knee - because my mother had warned me against above the knee shaving as if it could end civilization as we know it. Taking my hands in hers, eyes so serious, "You don't want to have stubbly knees Heather." 

I noticed my first chin hair when I was in high school.  I remember being in typing class - in between time trials - and feeling the prickliness of that single hair, underneath my chin - embedded, it seemed, in my chin scar.  The scar was the result of a childhood injury with a springy horse at the playground when I was two, a good place to have one's first scar - conveniently obscured underneath the shelf of your jawbone.

I didn't even really notice the other hairy bits emerging until my Dad made primate noises when I appeared in my bathing suit in my late teens.    "OOOOH!  OOH!  OOH!"  Deep throaty noises to trumpet the arrival of longer and darker hair on the backs of my thighs.  Back of your thigh hair is impossible to really pay attention to unless you spend a lot of time feeling yourself up or trying to wrap your own legs around your head.  So I blithely went around for years, unaware of my Zorba-esque rear view.  I was befuddled.  I knew about the "if you shave it will come back darker and hairier" threat, but I hadn't shaved there!  Not since the first time when I was 11 and hadn't yet been advised against such insanity.  The lag time was incredible!  That back of my thigh hair was what prompted the  purchase of my first epilady to tear the offending colour and texture off those legs.

That epilady is now used to tear hair from the backs of my thighs, the fronts of my thighs, my inner thighs, my bikini line, the tops of my feet - HOLY FUCK!  I'VE BECOME A FREAKING HOBBIT!!! - the tops of my big toes.  It'd be used on my neck and my chin hairs if I weren't terrified that I might catch the not-quite-as-taut-as-it-used-to-be neck flesh in it's tweezing clutches.  The chicken skin behind my knees has suffered from that mistake and it hurts like fuck.

The denuding never happens as often as it should, usually before I know David and I will have sex or I'm having my physical or a massage.  Which is why it generally ends up being a rushed affair with imperfect results.  Days later, I'll be having that last nude before-bed-pee and look down and notice entire swaths of hair that I had missed.  The next quarter of an hour is spent with me shivering on the toilet, obsessively ripping the offending hairs from my person.

One day.  One day I shall have unlimited wealth and I shall have a team of strong young men (all ex-Olympic swimmers) to take care of my hair... scratch that.  They'd have to see me all hairy and orangutan-like.  Not going to happen.  Better to have the Eastern European Aesthetician wax me or - I'll save up the big bucks and have laser hair removal.  And then I will have that team of strong young men massage my smooth and hairless thighs - front and back and as far up the inside as I can, before it costs the extra bucks.

No comments:

Post a Comment