I seriously love it when blokes go all taboo. Nickhereandnow in his infinite excellent wisdom, wrote his view on hairiness (and prevention of) today. I leaped with joy to read his post, as it’s a great excuse to have a go, especially seeing as I may just be the hairiest girl in the world.
You might have seen this face before:
This smug mug belongs to my father, who bestowed his wisdom, height, and Wookie genes upon me. Now you perhaps will appreciate my point.
Freud would have it that I would prefer the bearded bloke when seeking a mate, but this for some reason went out the window when I chose a man with exactly two hairs on his chest. Freud also said that a woman is either constantly running towards her father, or away from him. If you saw my dad standing on top of his pile of tourist carcasses, you’d probably choose the latter, too. With the exception of Gimme perhaps, bearded men are generally too ‘nice’ for me, being that I like just a pinch of bad-boy in my men.
Anyway, being that I am with a minimally hairy bloke, a lot of discussion has led me to understand that excess hair on my own self is not appreciated. I have been asked to visit the beautician’s quarters for a ‘bald eagle’ of late (TAT’s knowledge of the hairstyles in that region astounded me). I refused point blank, as I have already experience pube waxing and found it not to my taste, especially when you’re being done by a vindictive cow who insists on ripping away at the same raw and bleeding patch 17 times.
Then, in my infinite female wisdom, I challenged TAT. I told him I’d go the va-general whole hog on the day he went through with a back, crack, and sack wax. We agreed to leave it at that, for that was good enough for this particular gander (‘Bollox to that!’ he said. ‘Exactly!’ I said).
The thing is though, you might be here expecting me to fully support this sort of image:
Not a chance, matey. The gals at school were the first to point out what a freak I was. Then when my best friend’s little brother began to call me ‘Dr. Zaius’, I knew it was time, and deforestation began against my mother’s wishes.
My de-fuzzing attempts are as follows:
-I tried Immac first (now Veet) which is a type of acid which, when applied to the skin, produces a very weird smell to let you know your skin is being poisoned. Then after a while, one washes said acid off, along with scorched dead hairs. Not so with us very hairy chicks! We just end up with alien legs that still need to be shaved despite chemically raw conditions. Binned.
-I tried those electric shavers twice. The first time it was useless. The second time came years later when I had forgotten how useless they were but they are still useless. Binned.
-I tried waxing once when I decided for some unknown reason that the midwife in the hospital in which I was due to explode shortly at the time, might be offended by my… umm… genetic condition. Bikini waxes hurt. They really sodding hurt. And, to make matters prettier, there were many craters, and much ingrown nastiness to follow. I tried home kits a few times on my arms, but with crap results. The pain was overtaken by the frustration of being totally unable to uproot the final 15% of the really stubborn hairs. It was almost the death of me, so it was binned.
-I even tried one of those electrolysis machines, bought on Ebay for fifty quid. The principle is that you hold this pen (which is wired to the mains) in your left hand. Instead of a nib, the pen has a micro-thin wire which you insert into the root of your offending hair. You then touch the silver part of the pen with your wet hand, and ‘BZZZZZZZT’ – you complete the circuit and get root electrocution. It smells rotten, it feels rotten, and you’d have to do it a rotten further 15,000,000 times to kill all the hair on your body. Binned.
My only man is your average disposable razor blade (especially the ‘new’ and ‘improved’ ones!), and a large bottle of Fruit of the Earth Crystal Clear Aloe Gel.
It takes me half an hour to shave everything (trying to shave one’s toe-knuckles with severe myopia is a serious challenge), much longer if I’m expecting a trip to the swimming pool or beach. It sucks, but I don’t mind, because there is not a chance in hell you’d find me letting it grow. It doesn’t feel natural, ironically, and I’m pretty sure that’s not the media talking. If a bloke were to walk up to me and tell me that hairy women are his greatest turn on, I’d run away.
Anthropologically, it doesn’t make sense for women to be hairy. Sure… didn’t they get to stay in caves and nurture young? Men of course needed hair to keep the warm and display their virility and that’s lovely… I’m a magnet to a scruffy stubble, as long as it’s only a few days old. Men needhair, but I don’t really understand how evolution hasn’t phased it out yet for women… Mother Nature must have gotten the hint by now that it’s out-dated and un-wanted?! In fact, this guy claims women are generally getting hairier, and yes, there is indeed a blog dedicated to the subject out there! Hairy Women Blog.
Is this one of natures oldest jokes? I sure as hell ain’t laughing.