Do not take me into natural light…
When did I get to be so freaking hairy? I should be in one of those carny magazines with the caption Hirsute Heather as I wear some Victoria styled gown bustled to a steam-punk length and a fascinator to show off my spectacular facial hair. There is something about the quality of the sun in the summer months. It’s like a night club at 2:00 a.m., when they turn the lights on and you realize that the sexy chick you’ve been plying with tequila sunrises all night, is actually Ernest Borgnine.
Natural light is horrifying. I’m not big on waxing. I shave my lower legs (shin & calf) fairly regularly and I’ve got one of those epilady things that rips the hair off other parts of your legs – kind of like a garburator but for leg hair – but I forget to use it. ‘Cause let’s face it, most people don’t spend all their time thinking about leg hair until they are out in public. If I contort my body to get a good glimpse of the back of my legs, I might put out a rib. NOT looking is really for my own well-being. Besides, in the safety of your own home, leg hair usually ain’t so bad, but when that natural light hits you – that’s when this gal of mostly Scandinavian DNA begins to resemble Zorba the Greek. Stanley could seek out Livingstone on the backs of my thighs. Please devote a moment to visualizing miniature explorers on the back of my legs with machetes.
I heeded my mother’s advice for many a year and did not shave above the knee. The tops of my thighs were mostly blond and not terribly bothersome. A few years back, to spice things up a bit I shaved… pretty much from the pelvis down (more on the pelvis part later). They say it’s an old wives’ tale that if you shave it’ll grow in darker. I am here to tell the old wives weren’t making that shit up, because my thigh hair is now no longer blond – it is black. I’ll be sitting on the beach – and I’ll glance down and then have to stifle a shriek of horror and surprise. HAIR! As far as the eye (or least MY eye) can see. And I’m in a freaking bathing suit, exposing it to the world at large. That’s when any sane being would just ignore it. Noone else is going to be close enough to see it. It’s not like people are wearing science fiction “Follicular Glasses” to zoom in on the wild hair on the locals at the beach. But there I am, shaded in my little half tent, using the nails of my thumb and first fingers as impromptu tweezers to tear out the offending hair, thereby drawing attention to the fact that I have now devolved to ape state to the entire beach front.
I did the Brazilian thing a couple of times – denuded myself of all the hair down there. I sought out a Russian aesthetician on Yelp who was highly acclaimed, who bent me near in half to get literally where the sun didn’t shine. David, accustomed to the way women are supposed to look like from the canon of adult films, was thrilled. (See that? My husband is one of the millions of men in the world who have been conditioned into thinking that having access to what looks like a pre-pubescent pelvis is sexy. Shudder.) Me? Not so much. I felt like a plucked chicken and about as sexy. Does this Brazilian make my labia look fat? PLUS? There was NO friction. My body didn’t know what the hell had happened to it. AND (but wait there’s more) after having had all the downtown muskrat hair ripped out, when it did come back in (after that incredibly itchy, make-you-look-like-you-have-crabs waiting period), some was missing.
In peri-menopause, I now have this downy coating of mostly (thank freaking God) blond fluff on my face. When I’m in the bathroom, if there’s natural sunlight beaming into the room – my face sort of sparkles with the blonde down – which is a good contrast against the splotchy skin discoloration that has also come upon me at this stage in my life. Sort of looks like I’ve been mottled with freckles then dipped in baby chick down. Rissa, of course, adores it. “Your face is so soft…” She’ll play with the longer hairs (the ones you don’t see until after a social event) around my jawline. “It’s like you’re glowing Mummy. You’re so beautiful!” Perspective shift. It’s then that I usually do my best to re-fucking-lax and get over myself. That’s also when I usually vow to wear sunglasses in the house so that I won’t notice all this shit.
