(Because why should Friday have all the fun?)
I joked recently about the skipping of shaving under my arms one weekend, and how I worried that I would set off a Bigfoot alarm when I raised my arm to finally scrape away the growth that had accumulated.
I was joking, but I also wasn’t.
I am a hairy girl.
The first hint that I was a hairy girl came in the preteen session of life when another girl informed me that the hair sticking out of my panty hose needed to go. In retrospect, she was giving me good advice. I mean, who knew that stubble could rip a hole in pantyhose?
Not that I know from first hand experience.
The second hint that I was a hairy girl came in my teens when a boy inspected my lower back and informed me that I had a hairy back.
I was mortified. In my introverted way of not showing expression. But it was still there. I promise.
I would like to take this moment to announce that I have been happily-ish married for almost 11 years now.
Girls with back hair can, in the real world, date and get engaged and get married.
They can also get pregnant, just so you know. Rolling in the hay doesn’t happen only between two fabulously thin, amazingly beautiful, perfectly articulate, wildly successful (fill in the list of blanks) people.
In fact, hairiness doesn’t actually end the world.
But I was young back then, and I thought that I was doomed.
I’m not a dramatic introvert at all.
I’ve also teased on Twitter about my hairy hobbit toes. Those really do exist. It’s second nature for me to lean further and do a little scratchy scratchy on my toes when I’m shaving my legs.
I have heard rumors that some women do not have to shave every day. No, I’m not talking about making a choice to not shave for a time. I mean women who can actually go outside of their home and still look all slick and shiny. (I can pull this off for about 15 minutes after I shave. Sad face, sad face.)
I, on the other hand, have to make sure I shave so that I don’t lacerate my husband in bed or my children when they reach for my legs. My children, honest little loves, like to stroke my legs and giggle and call me precious, prickly words.
And eyebrows? Heaven help me. I could practically get into the gifted and talented classes for how fast those things grow. I don’t have a uni brow, but I do have the tendency to grow a few (okay, several) hairs in that region. And I pluck above the brow with no fear. (According to the rules, you should never, ever EVER pluck hair above your eyebrow. But hairy girls can do this without as much fear. The hair needs to go.)
It wasn’t until I was in my 30s that I discovered that if one buys tweezers that are more than a dollar, it can be slightly less painful and a bit faster to pluck unwanted hair.
Okay, yes, it was last week.
But seriously, something had to be done. I have to look for chin and neck hair now. Good grief, it just gets worse. And because that hair is where it is, I have to do the neck thing. You know. The thing where you caress your neck with your hand, but not because you have a lovely neck. No, you are playing hide and seek with the scary, long hair that has managed to grow even though you practically check ever day and you swear it is there so you run into the bathroom and twist and crank and pluck until it’s gone. If you are lucky.
If you are unlucky, you pluck other hairs and then go back into the living room and sit down and then find the same hair right in the place you have found it earlier, but it had apparently camo’d itself while you were turning side to side under the light you thought would reveal the urchin’s hidden lair. So then you have to do it ALL OVER AGAIN. Once I did it three times. And then again the next day.
Honesty is a beautiful thing, isn’t it?
Another hair issue I have discovered this year: Some women remove the hair from above their lips. Now, I don’t like looking like a cat when I look in the mirror as much as the next human being, but I have yet to ever go this far in my hair removal process. Why? Because when I get rid of fine, blonde hair, it grows back as thick, black hair. I’m afraid to remove my lipstache. Like, very afraid. Very, very afraid.
For now, you are going to have to practice Jesus love for me and my lipstache. Sorry, not sorry.
Then there are the other hair problems. Down there.
But it’s late and I’ll leave that TMI for another post. Maybe. You know what I actually want to talk about in the down there region? The things the pregnancy books NEVER talk about. The books that SAY they cover everything, but one day during pregnancy #3 (after reading tons of I’ve Got a Bun in the Oven books) you realize that something very wrong is happening down there and you have no idea if you should ask the midwife up front, or let her find it on her own and educate you. (and/or rush you into the hospital ward where you will end up in a medical book. Except you won’t, because it’s an actual thing that happens to other women.)
So the drama, private parts. So the drama.
Until later, my hairy OR not so hairy friends. It takes all kinds, right?
(and unfortunately for me, often)