hair | Sanity and Cigarettes

I am currently mourning the loss of my lush armpit hair – which was single handily saying ‘fuck you’ to society. Although, it started off not so much as an act of defiance but rather an act of I can’t be arsed shaving. What was initially to be just a week, maximum two, of having hairy pits, kind of accidently turned into two months. Take that society – BAM! During this two month break up with a razor I witnessed my armpit hair go through a spikey stage, only to surpass it and then turn into soft lush hair. A bizarre thing then happened… I developed a proud sense of achievement at having grown my pit hair so long, pretty much taking every opportunity to say, “Hey there, check out how long my armpit hair is!” [Whilst secretly hoping someone would say how disgusting it was for a woman to have hairy armpits so that I could give them a lecture in equality, society norms and so forth]. Eventually, I also developed a very irrational attachment to my pit hair – dreading the day that I knew would ultimately fall upon me, whereby I would need to remove the hair I had so carefully and tenderly grown. That day was two days ago. I went out in a sleeveless dress for the first time in two months, and the time came therefore to shave.

Needless to say there were tears. As I ran the razor over my armpits [again and again because the hair was clogging up the blades], I was torn between looking, so that I wouldn’t cut myself, and looking away, so that I didn’t have to witness the dreadful separation of my lush hair from the safety of my pits. I guess in time the pain will get better, but for now, I find myself constantly feeling sad and I have been quite distracted by the whole ordeal that basic things, such as walking and just being a functioning human being generally, have become quite the feat.

This afternoon I had to catch a bus to the airport, whereby I would be flying away from my sister, McCool, and home alone. With the loss of my pit hair on top of the impending physical loss of my sister from my personal space, I was rendered a retard. With the bus having started up and minutes away from departing, McCool had kindly gone ahead of me to put my big suitcase on the bus, and I was in a special kind of way, “running” behind, donning my fur pimp coat, with a smaller suitcase which was created with one purpose and one purpose only – to make me a fool [The stupid thing never does what it is supposed to, that is to wheel in a straight line by my side, and so often forces me to have to make stupid jokes like, “Haha, there is something wrong with the suitcase, and not me! Ha, ha, oh…” to people walking behind me at airports].

So there I was, about two metres away from the bus driver and the ticket collector, both standing at the bus door, giving my sympathetic looks as I ran towards them, on account of my naturally unco’ running style, when the following then occurred in slow motion: my left leg went forward; my right leg attempted to go forward, but got caught on the rogue suitcase; my arms went flapping about all around me; I ate a banana; my mouth made a ‘noooooo’ movement; saliva dribbled from the corner of my mouth; and I then fell flat on my face.

Of course the people who witnessed my fail at life were considerate and asked whether I was ok. When McCool realised she had missed my stack, she proclaimed, “Oh my darling sister, are you hurt, here let me help you with that and take my arm as you limp to the seat dedicated for old people and disabled people – which is you my dear.” Psyche! Rather, what was proclaimed was, “What!? I missed you stacking it! HAHAHAH! You fell in front of everyone?! Gold!”

We then realised we had a few seconds to say goodbye and with that we quickly hugged, kissed and confessed our undying love for one another (apparently it was cute – the bus driver informed us of this as she watched the outplay). I then got on the bus, alone, but instead of crying instantly like I normally do, I kept making these weird awkward giggle noises for the next ten minutes while other bus riders looked at me concerned. Then I cried, and when I went to hold my armpit hair to console me and make me feel not so alone in the world, all I felt was smooth bare skin, and with that harsh reminder, I cried harder and snorted out loud.

I am aware that this story will probably cause a lot of men to fall in love with me, so just be careful fellas not to knock each other over as you all come running towards me. I prefer my men in one piece.