Adventures in Hair Removal

Ladies and Gentlemen, I am hairy. It's a fact. I can't get around it, it's just the way it is.

I blame it on my genetic heritage: part caucasian, part East Indian, part...??? If I was a dog, in  Trinidad I'd be known as a Pot Hound (because when you rattle the pot, the dog comes running), everywhere else I'd be known as a mongrel. Along with stubbornness (both sides) and a flair for creativity (father's side), I have inherited the hairy gene.

There are the upsides. I have a full head of hair. It's thick with a tendency to curl. I'm not sure who I can blame on the early grey part, I was 23 when I first noticed a smattering o hairs when I was pregnant with Boy. 

I wouldn't mind so much; if only it was limited to the top of my head.

If I didn't shave my legs and arms every day, darlings I resemble the Amazon rainforest: walking tree covered in foliage. Honestly.

One of the things they don't tell you when you're a wee baby girl, is that when you turn a certain age, hair starts sprouting over your top lip and on your chin. And they aren't tiny, subtle hairs either. I'm talking long, thick and wiry. If I didn't deal with the hair on the top of my lip every week, I could have a full-waxed handle-bar that would Edwardian men cry.

My hairline begins just above my eyebrow.

You'll note I used singular. You see, I have only one eyebrow that goes straight across my forehead. Frida Kahlo, you pre-pubescent girl. Call that facial hair?! Hah!

Frida Kahlo - self portrait with monkeys

There's a very persuasive feminist argument that says shaving is bad. It's a hair-less dogma dictated by society and the media to reduce women to adolescent girls. After all, hair is a sign of sexual maturity.

There's part of me going: Right On Sistah! But I view feminism as giving women choices and the right to make up their own minds about their bodies and how they live their lives. So, yes I'm very sympathetic to the pro-body hair argument, but honestly, it's not for me. I just don't like how it feels.

There are very few hair removal techniques I haven't tried: shaving, waxing, threading and hair removal creams. Epilators have never appealed, I've looked at no-no and the reviews don't match the marketing and I haven't won the lottery to afford laser.

Thanks to the my economic situation, I have had to come up with crafty ways to be hair-free. I tried hair removal cream [if you aren't drinking or eating anything and are in the privacy of your own home, have a look at these reviews for Veet for Men. They are live on Amazon and bloody hilarious] and the results have been less than helpful.

I don't mind having my forehead and eyebrows waxed. It's over and done within seconds and it's perfect. If the beautician is using good products and a soothing aftercare lotion, you don't end up with fuchsia strips instead of eye shadow.

There are threading booths around Norwich that don't charge a lot. You can rock up, they do you there and then and et voila! Two lovely sculpted eyebrows!

Or at least that's what should happen.

I don't like threading. It hurts, takes ages and can cut the delicate skin around my eyes. You've got to pull the skin taut, which for me is an exercise in frustration given I moisturise and I wear contact lenses. 

Yesterday, I rocked up at the threading booth and sat down to have two eyebrows. I am less than pleased with the results. She dispensed with two-thirds of my eyebrow and has left me with two thin angular lines. It looks like they were drawn on with a ruler and a set-square. Honestly, they make me look like I'm cross.

Oh wait. I am cross.

It's no good. I am just going to have to learn how to pluck the damned things myself. That way, the next time I end up with two thin lines, it'll be no one else's fault but my own. 

Humpf.

Public Service Announcement

It has come to my attention that perhaps gentlemen could use some beauty advice. Therefore, I have taken it upon myself to educate you in good grooming practises that will ensure your significant other will continue to want to get up close and personal with you in years to come. And strangers in the street will stop walking to the other side of the road, or stop staring at a point just behind your head.

Gentlemen find a mirror and flare your nostrils.

If you can see even a strand of nasal hair...you are in need of my help.

I once had the most unfortunate experience. I went to a meeting. A serious meeting. A meeting where I could not afford to be distracted. The gentleman next to me had nasal hair a ring-tailed lemur could have swung from. Unfortunately, he had a bit of a cold. And no tissue or hanky. It meant that the tips of the hairs hanging proudly from his nose, dangling above his shaved upper lip were glistening. Glistening I tell you. Perfectly formed drops reflecting all the colours of the rainbow. All I can say is his wife and he must have been in difficulties, for her to let him out of the house looking like that. Can you imagine what his nose would have been like when it all dried up?

Because you, my gentle readers, are not right bastards and I enjoy your company greatly, I offer this advice: pluck or trim. I'm not a fan of plucking. Makes ones eyes water and hurts like hell. Many chemists in their electrical section offer men's grooming kits. You can buy nasal trimmers that won't shred the inside of your nose, but will whisk those pesky danglies away in 5 minutes. You will probably need to do this as part of your fortnightly grooming routine, but trust me, the effort is worth it. And while you're at it, check for ear hair and trim those too.

For those of you that will argue for the au naturel look, that will say 'all you have to do is tuck them in' - NO.

It doesn't work. The pesky danglies, will quickly untangle themselves and swing free above your top lip. Nor does trying to blend them in with your moustache work either. Just because the hair at the top of your head has migrated to your nostrils, you're going to have to face up to the fact it's really not sexy. It's not like you'll ever be able to style them properly. Let them go.

It's not big, it's not clever. It's certainly not sexy. It's nasty. Go trim.

SSSsssccccrrrrrreeeeeeeee!!!!

[The sound my nails make as I slip off my learning curve]

I have had a whopper of a bad day. Not helped by the continuing farce that is the radiation scare. Needless to say when I went in today, there was yet another way of processing the calls. Unrelated, tonight I went back in to work to get some training on the ugrades they will be making to the system. It is good how the system is organic and adjusts to meet the needs of the callers, but damn I'm tired.

I've just finished wrapping the first of Boy's pressies. A little something special for him. I'm really looking forward to tomorrow. I still find it so hard to believe that my bump turned into him. I was at a friend's birthday do which consisted of young trendies who were very down on the whole parenthood thing. They spent a lot of time coming up with witty ways to put parenting and children down. Afterwards, I realised how awkward I found the scathing humour. I love being mum to Boy. He is seriously wonderful and I am potty about him.

Hmmm....there should be a punchline with that thought, but it's late, I've had a glass of something naughty and I think I can hear my bed calling. Coming!

Detoxing and Modesty Blaise

A good friend of mine recommended detoxing. I thought, I'm feeling a bit low after the end of term, knackered, I've given my liver a bit of a kicking, sure why not? Yesterday, I spent on my futon, reading Peter O'Donnell's 'Modesty Blaise' and drinking smoothies and water.

Do I feel any better for it? I had the worst night's sleep for quite awhile, I've woken up with a splitting headache and I don't feel ready to fight my way out of a bowl of cold spaghetti. Oh that's right, I'm supposed to feel like this. I have given in and am having a cup of coffee though. A woman has to have at least one vice to make life worth living; 1 cup of coffee is not going to send me to Tartaris for all eternity.

I first came across 'Modesty Blaise' in a serialised comic form in the Trinidad Express. In my tender years she became my role model, she was independent, fiesty, sexy, gorgeous and never apologised for being herself. I collected all of Peter O'Donnell's books. Unfortunately, I no longer have them, and they have been very difficult to get hold of. Imagine my joy when I saw that Sovereign Press are re-releasing the collection again. The first one being sold in Waterstones for 99p!

Reading it again was like a home coming, but like many books that I've read when I was young and come back to much later, the experience had changed for me. I noticed different things. Written in the 1960's, it was very much of its time. The gadgets date it, but not overly so. It is the money that really places it; Modesty Blaise and Willie Garvin retired from their life of crime on half a million sterling; had they been recruited into the Civil Service they would have expected a grand salary of £2,000 per annum. In many ways, it's very gentile; the settings are described with a sensuous detail to delight connisseurs of fine cigarettes, alcohol and good jewellery. Fine details which would be unappreciated in today's bling and fling society.

Modesty Blaise is very much a fantasy woman written by a man. I was going to compare her with Lara Croft, Catwoman and a couple of Bond girls and then I realised...they have all been created by men. I'm going to ponder that one for a bit longer.