This January after running into relationship complications, I once again found myself going toward the light of Frida.
Many, or most, previously important things went the way of attention span pre-smartphone. One of those things was my appearance. Late January in the way-up-here North and staring down at what my gypsy blood was telling me would be an epic February, I began phase anti-appearance. Each day more and more fucks to give were buried under the growing mountains of snow. Still have no idea if they will reappear when the thaw comes, or if they’ve been crushed under the weight. I’ll let you know in May.
But one particular part of my appearance that went to a new level was my body hair. Between my depression and the harsh winter life, I just sort of stopped shaving my body hair. Unlike in the past, this time my grooming neglect expanded to my underarms. I simply stopped shaving them, or looking at them. I forgot about them all together.
Then one day I lifted my arm up and was shocked to see hair nestled into the scoop of my underarm.
I smiled. It was fucking lovely.
I felt it. And if was soft. And lovely.
What was I expecting? I had never actually seen my underarm arm in its natural form. If it was like this before I started shaving I don’t remember it. Maybe I thought it would be like man hair? It would feel course and be unruly? It would harbor acidic smells? Whatever I had feared those fears could now go ahead and join the fucks I buried in the piles of late winter snow.
Because my underarm hair is beautiful, and more feminine than any shaved pit I have ever sported.
Join the revolution.