A Hairy Tale

Let's talk hair ladies.

I have it, you have it. We all have it. Unfortunately less of it on my head than I would ideally prefer and much much more of it everywhere else than I need.

My mother and my sister are unfairly hair free, and can flaunt lightly downy arms and hairless shins all year long. I, on the other hand, in my natural state am a furry limbed mutant who lends credence to the theory that we are all just slightly more evolved apes.

My genetic legacy of a caterpillar unibrow and a Frida kahlo-style 'tache has been attributed to rogue genetic material inherited from my dad's side of the family (in the words of my mom).

Off course nature's generosity in this regard also translated into an abundance of hair on my head. But it was never well behaved, polite hair. It was an afro-esque curiosity of curls which swallowed hairpins whole when I wasn't looking. When angered, it would grow upward and outward and was prone to spring ferociously into a mass of bristling frizz at the first hint of humidity or at the sight of a hairbrush.

That abundance was significantly pared down after the birth of two kids. The road to accepting my curly self is another long story. For now. I'll work from the top down.

Throughout my teens, I had a unibrow, a mustache and a pronounced penchant for men's vests (is it just me who thinks women's underwear is insanely uncomfortable) . My mom was a very low maintenance lady with a less than normal amount of body hair.

So she had no idea what to do with her abnormally hairy daughter. To add insult to injury she had read somewhere that it damages children's self esteem if you comment on their appearance or attempt to change it in any way . Although I would beg to differ and point out that going through tenth grade with more facial hair than my male class fellows didn't exactly do my self esteem any favors.

But, I digress. Around about that time, through some meaningful hints dropped by older girlfriends. I discovered the marvels of threading. It was slightly painful. Yes. But it left me deliciously moustache free and with normal eyebrows. It was like one of those teen movie transformations where the former nerd takes of her glasses and shakes out her hair and hotness prevails . I wouldn't go so far as to say hot. But I looked shockingly almost preternaturally normal.

Thrilled with my new found normalcy. I was on a roll.I decided to deforest on all fronts and adopted a scorched earth policy, keeping the ever advancing troops at bay with an arsenal which would make Genghis Khan's eyes water.

I experimented with all the available options. Waxing left me with angry raised rashes, plucking with tweezers caused ingrown hair follicles and on one memorable occasion, an inflamed sebaceous cyst. Bleaching gave me a halo-like effect, so I looked like a dread locked Christ cameo from a Rastafarian nativity scene when the light hit me.

I even went so far as to try laser, which was shockingly painful and burnt my eczema prone skin away with the hair. So my face was basically a giant scab after each session. Sometime around my third appointment . I returned to my senses and decided I would rather have skin to grow my hair on. Than no hair and no skin.

‌These days I stick to threading for the facial topiary, a once weekly appointment with a disposable razor or electric epilator for my furry shins and a wax job every other month or so for sundry bits and pieces .This is frankly minimal maintenance considering my follicular tenacity . I occasionally toy with the idea of re-embracing my natural self and letting it all grow out but I'm honestly too influenced by the media ideal of what is deemed attractive and acceptable in a woman.

The other day my husband was complaining about having to go get his beard trimmed.

" Its easy for you, you're a woman. You guys don't have body hair. "

In that moment I remembered all the countless hours and days and months I'd spent playing into the fallacy that women don't or shouldn't have body hair when in fact we all do. Maybe a little more or a little less. But generally speaking, all of us are mammals. Mammals have fur.

I went wordlessly to the bathroom and opened the toiletry cabinet . Took out a wax strip and slapped one onto his arm before yanking it off.

The noise, the fuss, the screaming . You'd think I'd tried to murder him.

Might I add that this is a man who beyond some fairly rudimentary facial grooming (for his beard) and a bi-annual haircut is blissfully unaware of even the smallest of male vanities. In his defense I can't say he's ever interfered in my decision to go hairless or grow an ankle fringe.

I considered trying to explain what it's like being a very average woman in a world which keeps raising the bar for the accepted average.

I considered forwarding this to him.

But for now,

I think that wax strip was ample illustration.