Let’s just imagine that in some parallel universe my devoted catholic virginal bride mother had a bonk with Hugh Jackman (because let’s face it – who wouldn’t?!). This quantum leap union of souls giving credence to my growing suspicion that I am actually the secret love child of Wolverine. I can back it up people bear with me.
First, there are my forearms, which are super insulated with fine long blond hairs; although handy in the autumn, Winter is Coming after all, Lord Commander Snow foretold it. In my 30s this hairy patch of land affected my equilibrium no longer, but when I was a child Jesus my mother had me convinced I was a werewolf; the night before a school trip, I was about 10 years old at the time and it was the middle of summer, she decided to shave the offending articles which resulted, due to my stupidly sensitive skin, in me developing prickly heat rash all over my arms. To hide this I had to ride the coach in a jumper sweating like a paedo in a playground! Oh the shame!
Next item of evidence; to my horror, since my father’s passing I have developed his old nose hair! If left unchecked (I have a tiny device which makes your eyes water –not that ‘No-No’ – I said no no as soon as I saw the bloody price!) a few tell tale daddy long legs tickle my nostrils in a bid for freedom which the husband refers to as Terrence.
They say confession is good for the soul, as a former roman catholic I’m not exactly sure I buy that statement, but here goes (let’s say this quietly and keep it between us) (whispers: ‘I have a ‘tach). In my defence its not obscene (think more your younger teenager brother trying to cultivate some form of facial hair) I believe the correct level of category for my facial hair would be best described as ‘buff fluff’. Like my forearms it consists of very fine short blond hairs (only on my forearms they’re long wispy things). We’ve despised each other’s presence ever since my mother alerted me to their presence and forced Immac upon me (yes I said Immac – I’ve having none of this Veet bollocks – it’s chuffing Immac! Don’t get me started on ‘Starburst’ – pah!). Anyway, results were varied; not to mention traumatic! Whilst the majority of the offending hair had been nuked, there was a remaining singed fraction that appeared to be making a defiant stand at my notice to evict and clung to my obscenely swollen upper lip. On the plus side it was like I’d had a free batch of Botox, on the downside I spent 2 hours with a wet flannel and spent the next 48 locked inside the house; oh and it encouraged a deluge of spots! Argh! Out of the frying pan into the fire!
It was around this time she also took to monitoring my eyebrows. I’d leg it as soon as I saw the pincers of punishment gripped in her alarmingly muscular fingers! You’d think I had a monobrow but honest I thought they were quite normal. Although I have learned in my 20s when I finally gave in after an incident of over plucking and went to a professional, that the reason I always felt a bit ‘wonky’ was because one side the hairs grow down and the other side grow up! No wonder I always look like that advertisement for stroke awareness; face fallen on one side?!
As a modern woman, I thought I’d try wax. This has produced the best results thus far, although unfortunately wax means optimum terror; laying there faking interest in the beautician’s small talk as you brace yourself in anticipation of their ruthless efficiency yanking the melting lava from your face with their little magic cloth (digging your nails into the underside of the bed until your knuckles are white causing chips in your polish). Maybe that’s why they suddenly go on the hunt for stray hairs with the tweezers (after they’ve ripped off a sufficient amount of your epidermis) as though they’re searching for the lost WMDs – so that they ramp up the pain factor causing maximum distress resulting in an unplanned manicure. But I will admit, regardless of the pain, I’d rather leave waxing to the experts. I tried some of those at home strips – bloody dire! I can brace myself for someone else doing it, but not me myself. It wouldn’t just rip off either, rather pulled so that after finally wrestling the strips off it looked like a giant pink gumball had shot its load over my mouth! And that stuff is hell to shift! I had a flannel, and a nail brush on the case – it took ages – and all to the soundtrack of my kids laughter! Oh the humiliation! Is no room sacred?!
Taking a turn toward the intimate, let’s just say that my bush is most definitely representative of my having been a child of the 80s! But how to tame the beast?! I wont lie, I’m not brave enough to expose the old growler to a complete stranger, and I’ve never fancied using Immac, so up until recently it’s always been a shaven haven courtesy of a Bic razor (which given my eyesight, should come with a HSE warning when you’re one check up away from a white stick and a Labrador). However, a recent discovery in the age of parenthood has seen the re-emergence of the classic Ladyshaver (depressing as I associate them with my own mother which means I AM O-L-D!!!!). But to give that little beauty its due it is tremendous at cutting through the foliage. However, a word of warning, always keep an eye on the battery life. It once cut mid deforestation after a particularly cold winter resulting in me looking like a half baked scalped cat! One of these days I’m going to go on strike and think to hell with it all – au natural all the way! It just seems like such a double standard, my husband’s pubes look like a rabbi’s beard and yet as women we’re meant to look pre pubescent?! It makes no sense to me! At least now I’m ringing in the seasons, I have a coat for winter and a landing strip for summer.
Well that’s all for now folks.
Hugh….the paternity test’s in the post