For this week’s #fbf, I am re-posting An Ode to Hairy Women. Since last week was about my hair woes, I thought I would keep the ball rolling with hairy tales. This one is pretty gnarly. You have been warned.
Except this isn’t an actual ode. It’s more like a dedication, but the word ‘ode’ sounded so much more interesting. I can’t write poetry in any form, but I can write one hell of a dedication to hairy women, because I have a lot of experience with unwanted body hair. I would call myself a Purple Heart recipient veteran of the War on Body Hair, but I’m still in the trenches, fighting.
Before I go any further, if you’re a man…a man who happens to be disillusioned about women, in regards to them being similar to hairless Sphynx cats, stop reading now. If you’re brave, be warned. I am about to rock your world, in a really, really bad way. If you care to remain in blissful ignorance, go read literally anything else.
My first experience with unwanted body hair happened in the bathtub at my grandmother’s cabin, the summer before 4th grade. Pretending I was a mermaid grew boring, and I suddenly felt compelled to look at my armpits, and good thing I did. I looked like a chia pet. It was terrifying. My mother introduced me to the razor that day. I didn’t know yet that that single instrument would be the bane of my entire existence. Why didn’t my boy cousins grow armpit hair? It was so unfair.
Soon after the dreaded pit hair, came loads of leg hair. I mean, loads. I had hairier legs than my dad (I’m not sure that’s saying much, though. Last we counted, he had, literally, three precious hairs left). My mom started buying razors in bulk at Costco. She also bought a lot of band aids. I had still not mastered the art of not bleeding to death during shaving. I looked like a 10 year-old cutter.
Next came the worst decision of my life. Do you ever look back on an event in your life, regardless of how many decades ago it was, and still cringe, like the pain of bad decisions is still a fresh wound? I still feel this bad decision, and if I were ever able to go back in time to change one thing it would be this. Not getting to go back and change how awful my first kiss was. Or, change farting in class the first day of freshmen year. No. I would go back and grab the razor out of my stupid, stupid hand the day I decided it would be smart to shave the baby hairs growing below my belly button. I had a smooth, beautiful, hairless belly for precisely one day. The next day my stomach looked like Robin William’s shoulders. I cried harder for the loss of my womanly belly than when my hamster, Rascal, died. It was traumatic.
During my formative years, I discovered Nair. The day I discovered that a product could literally melt my mustache away was one of the best of my life. That is, until I failed to read the directions properly. I left that nasty shit on for 10 minutes longer than is suggested (I mean, the box specifically states to, “Under no circumstance leave on longer than 10 minutes, unless you want to melt your lips off, dumbass”). My mom actually let me stay home from school, because no one in the house could stand looking at me longer than a few seconds before dissolving into a big pile of ugly laughing. “Fuck-You-I-Hate-My-Life” pretty much said it all. After this incident my mom hid her Nair, and just a whiff of that noxious chemical would send me reeling.
During college, I struggled with additional unwanted hair. As if a hairy belly button, man legs, and a Burt Reynolds ‘stache wasn’t bad enough, I discovered I had hair sprouting on my chin. The day I found my new unwanted friends was the same day I had a blind date planned, because that’s how being me goes. I asked my best friend to pluck those deceiving bastards. After she plucked the few I had seen, she started in below my chin. I said, “Wait, what’re you doing? Are there more?” She just said, “Um”. In a state of utter panic, I asked how many more. She said, “Well, most of them are white, so we won’t have to pluck them. So…if I had to guess, 25?” I died a little inside that day.
This will be me one day. I think she’s seriously adorable. I’m serious. I want to hug her.
After the panic of that recent discovery, I resorted to accepting the fact that my life would now revolve around waxing trips to the salon. Because I have sensitive skin, I always looked like I had a sunburn in the shape of Middle-Aged Man. So, of course, the guy I was dating called me, in a panic, right after my monthly waxing appointment. His car had broken down and he was stranded. I literally had a red mustache and beard, but he was hot, so I had to go get him. I should have just called that one a loss, because tying a shirt around the bottom half of your face, because, “it was cold”, looks crazy. Eventually, because he wasn’t an imbecile, he put two and two together and discovered I had waxed my face. I just dumped him. It was better than knowing he knew.
Presently, I am struggling with how to shave my man arms without getting razor burn. Do you know what razor burn on your arms looks like? It looks like Please Don’t Sit By Me. It looks like a fucking disease.
The second I’m a millionaire, I’m getting full-body electrolysis. Ladies Who Get It, am I right? Is that not the exact same thing you would do? Of course it is.
So, this isn’t really a dedication either, more of a really sad, true tale, that is dedicated to the Ladies Who Get It. To the Ladies Who Don’t Get It, you aren’t part of the club, so there (don’t get your panties in a twist, you’re already part of the Non-Manly Woman Club, so go be hairless, and let us hairy ladies have this).
Well, I gotta go. My 5 o’clock shadow is already coming in, and my boyfriend still doesn’t know I shave more than him. Shhhhh.