Naked Mole Rats

I have a teenage daughter. She’s 16 to be exact. She is a lot like me in many ways: she’s fucking hilarious, she’s more empathetic than the average person, she’s smart but finds school a better social than educational environment, and she cries when she is overtired. And she has her own sense of style and fuck you if you don’t like it attitude….Where we are different is the idea that certain natural body features need to be obliterated in order to be attractive.

I’m talking about body hair. I don’t get it. I understand the Victoria’s Secret Angels (which is a totally ‘nother rant for another time,) competition body builders, and swimmers annihilating every hair follicle on their body, although I still wonder if Michael Phelps’ leg hair would have changed anything. But is arm hair really that repulsive? I occasionally paint my toenails, usually around the time all the color from the last 5 -minute -boredom -killer pedicure wears off. Apparently I have 3 toe hairs that my daughter had pronounced “revolting,” and I am supposed to be shaving my toes…

Which leads to the rest of my gorilla suit-like skin. I pretty much shave randomly, in random places. I am currently trying waxing …. And it is less than pleasant… But I have also found I can use the “I’m growing it out to waxing length” as a legit excuse for the truth- I’m too lazy and I really don’t care enough to worry about depilation. Maybe watching “Desperately Seeking Susan” too many times influenced my follicular apathy. Maybe I was married too long and just stopped caring. Maybe my experience with the most torturous device ever invented- The Epilady- at age 14 scarred me for life. Or maybe I’m still just a rebel, fighting “the man” and what industry tells me I should be… Ya, let’s go with that one…
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One thought on “Naked Mole Rats

  1. When did arm hair become something we were supposed to remove? Poetry has been written about how beautiful a young woman’s arms look, with the gleam of sunlight lighting up the fuzz on her arms. And no, I can’t remember which poem, exactly, or maybe it was prose, and ja, fuzz doesn’t sound poetic – but dammit, when did beauty demand unnatural slipperiness? Yuck.

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