I’ve decided to re-grow out my armpit hair. That’s right. Grow it. Grow the full crop.
I mean it’s happening anyway. I neglected attending to attend to it for a few weeks recently and it got ‘outta hand’. So I thought I’d just wax it. My waxing lady is hilarious. I can not fault her work. She corrects me when I say ‘arm pits’. It is ‘Under Arm’. We don’t mention ‘pits’. It’s inelegant.
Anyway, I usually have my body hair tamed but at the moment, I’m feeling like an uprising. I mean, ‘Tamed’. ‘TAMED!’ Argh! My inner 20 year old is pissed at this.
By the time I hit about 20 years old, I had looked with penetration at what makes a woman valuable in this world and had noticed that looks and youth have a great deal to do with it. And, although I fitted the value system, that made me mad.
When I was 20 years old, studying at University, I found my preferred peers. They were a highly affectionate, funny, gentle, uplifting, intelligent and super fun gaggle of young lesbians (in the main). They had hairy armpits. It was a political statement.
When I think about it now, they would surely kick my ass for calling them a gaggle. I think they’d prefer a ‘murder’ or at least a swarm, troop, grist, rabble, pod or, something. No! I’ve got it! In honour of our ‘radical’ reclamation activities, honouring menstruation, we were a Rag of Lesbians! (And some men-fucking ‘Queers’ like me. Some energetic gay boys and awesome women-loving fellas.)
Oh university in the 90s. Le sigh…wow. It was great. I remember, at the ripe age of 18, I had been out of home for a year, was living in downtown Fitzroy, paying $52 a week rent, being shown into radical bookshops and poetry halls, and covert speakeasies where women, naked or otherwise spoke great inspiring words that rocketed my mind capsule out of the suburbs and transported me to realms of courage and juice that I had only dreamed the glimmers of at high school.
During this time I saw some deliciously subversive body hair creations. The girl on the tram at orientation, changed my life. She was hanging on to the rail: her full hairy copse, dyed as green as a spring meadow. Then there was the Girl who had shaved horizontal stripes down her lower legs: nice job! Strange effect, but you know, Respect!
It was liberating.
Thus, I have never since been interested in what uptight men and women have opined in vox pop street polls on under arm hair. I mean, who cares? Whatevs!
AND, OMG, There is currently an international action trying to get on it’s feet called Armpits4August! Oh, bless.
So, now, I’m 40 and I really do love the silky smooth (and social acceptable) bald-ass underarm but from time-to-time I mix it up. No one who loves me minds – although we’ll see. Frankly I feel so tender about allowing the soft furry kitten of my pit-ling to visit again after all these years. A subtle sensuous act of reclamation.
I feel like this temporary change is like a little holiday. A ribald, wild, uncivilised, drunken, tit-flashing, karaoke-involved holiday. I think with lipstick, false eyelashes and heels I could confuse the fuck out of some people next cocktail party. … Ha. Awesome.
* Photo source: Julia Squire…respect. For full shoot (with nudity) see: http://www.juliasquire.com/biophotology/saturated-blossoms