I think of all the other things I could do if I didn't care about removing unwanted body hair--like, translate Dostoyevsky's complete works to Arabic (no, I don't speak Arabic or read Russian, and I'm not wild about Dostoyevsky).
That said, believe you me, I ain't as diligent as I used to be (in high school, where it seemed as though my very life depended on artificial hairlessness). Even so, it's a real life-sucker. Yes, I am the dark-Irish, dark-Italian mix, and I am also a girl (which makes it not ok, somehow). I have hair, dark, thick hair, on body parts that you probably didn't even know existed. Yep. Everywhere. I could give Frodo Baggins a run for his money. Chewey--I could eat for breakfast. (Hey, there's a reason why I identify with our hero, el sasquatch).
And as I get older, it's only getting worse. I should be losing hair, but it keeps growing back, thicker than ever and in even more bizarre locales. On my last birthday I discovered some "stray" hairs on my eyelid (EYELID!). Later came a discovery on my chinny chin-chin...
~ ON THE NEXT FULL MOON, THE TRANSFORMATION WILL BE COMPLETE! ~
And what luck. That I, more than anything, hate removing my body hair. Let's be real. Does any one out there like it? If so, what are you taking? I want some!
For me, it's always been a physically and emotionally straining activity, not to mention a huge waste of time, energy and money. I don't get why we can't all just live with the smells and the hairs we were given. Honestly. Think of the waste WASTE of all those little tools, products, all made of plastic or metal or paper or wax, made in factories using tons of energy and shipped using our precious fossil fuels. So that I can BUY it to torture myself and waste my own time, so that, what? Remind me?
And yet, despite all this, about every third week I take a little trip to the bathroom, and emerge, wholly primped and primed, smooth and hairless as a baby's you-know-what.
In the last two years, I've resorted to using these little wax strips which seem utterly sophisticated, undeniably European and generally in good, clean taste. That said, after I do the big pull, I have to circumambulate the tiny room at least four times before I'm able to bring myself to sit down once more. Why do I do this? Well, for one, to avoid the god-awful task of shaving, a ritual from which I've never emerged unscathed (usually there are about fourteen classic nicks in all the troublesome areas...knees are cumbersome, aren't they?)
I don't even mind it that much under my arms, on my legs, stomach, back, ears, forehead, teeth, whatever. I don't mind having hair. (I'd make a kickass Frida on Halloween, not to mention, I could make friends with the local sasquatch community). I have on more than one occasion gone on strike (for anywhere between two weeks and seven months), only to be shot down by peer pressure. The kind of peer pressure that is all breadth--seventeen people at different points in time, each 1) "noticing" and then 2) asking "hey, what's going on?" or "what's up with that?" or, even better, "WHOAA!" There's only so much a girl can take before she feels like she's a sideshow attraction.
Well, folks, I don't know what to do or say but to continue on this awful cycle of inflicting pain, getting indignant, striking, feeling like a freak, and then inflicting pain and wasting a ton of time so that--what? I can say I'm never EVER doing this again, and then within a month I'm back in socially normative purgatory.
Maybe, someday, I'll come to terms with whatever caveman castoff genes have made it through the evolutionary food chain up to my eyelids. Maybe I'll just lose all my hair and be sad because I look like a shiny, tall Q-tip, and mist up when I see the rusty, cob-webbed remnants of my razor.
But today, the struggle lives on. Daily. I notice new growth, and not the (emotional, intellectual) kind I need. And I try not to mind what people say, thinking about how nice it is that I have long eyelashes and big eyebrows (even though if it weren't for my relative diligence, I'd have big eyebrow)*.
And, heck, now I'm even writing a blog entry about it, so I'll cut my losses and leave you with this:
*Henson cast me before Burt came on board. The pressure was just too much and I had to move on.