One minute you are a normal, functioning human woman. You practise safe hair removal, armed with a Venus razor and easy access to a professional waxer. And then all of a sudden you are not a normal functioning human woman, you are Chewbacca. Hair here. And here, and here. Wiry ones. It is a case of constant vigilance because, what would happen if you just let them grow wild and free? Nothing good.
I am nothing without moisturiser. I moisturise therefore I am. I am dewy, like Spring. Despite the booze and the coffee and occasional menthol cigarette, my skin is a temple. During a furtive office moisturise I suddenly connect with a stubborn foreign thing on my chin. THIS HAPPENS ALMOST EVERY DAY. I never leave the house without tweezers again.
Small of back
Nothing sexier than that rogue hair springing from the small of my back. That I can feel catching on my knickers but through some twist of terrible fate keeps evading my attempts at removing it. Something to do with the angle. Hold on… And then I caught myself in the bathroom mirror doing the contortion. Back fat. Loss of dignity. *passes out*
Not just a light hairy leg but a full grown black Hobbit crop. There on the knee cap. With lots of Hobbity friends. Can you see it through the tights? Do I shave it? Will it come back thicker? Should I just give up and draw a face on my knee and give it a name?
There I am doing some sweeping, upwards cleansing movements that a facialist once told me to do in my 20s, when, what fresh hair is this? NOOOOOOOO. Neck hair. Soft goaty tufts. But brown. Dark brown. Sweet, really. And also disturbing.