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Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

03 October 2012

Hair



Mea Culpa.




It's that time of year again.  
The summer heat slowly turns to the cool breezes of autumn,  the vibrant leaves fall gently from the trees to the barren ground below, and my legs grow their plush winter coat in preparation for the first snow of the season.





I didn't used to be like this... I used to shave my legs and pits every time I climbed into the shower.  (Which is every day, in case you're wondering if there's a loophole in that sentence.  There isn't.)  My legs were ready for your viewing pleasure all day, every day, 365, y'all.

As it stands now, I'm pretty sure that if I were in a tragic accident, the emergency response crew would be so totally distracted by the luscious locks flowing from each leg that they would forget to save my life. They'd be all, "Holy SHIT!  Marcus, Bob, Ellen... grab your iPhones!  This shit needs to go on youtube!"  Then they'd play some funky rendition of Whip Your Hair and it would go viral.  

Meanwhile, I'd be dead.  And my family would be humiliated.  My children would change their names, my mother would insist she'd only had ONE daughter, who was still alive, well, and clean-shaven, and I would become an Urban Legend.  Move over, Chupacabra... it's all about me and my legendary leg hair now.

*Speaking of my mother, this totally happened about a month ago:  The fires burning in north eastern California were very close to her home, and I called her one evening to make sure she was okay.  The conversation went as follows:

Mother:  *answering the phone*  "Hello?"

Me:  "Hi!  I'm just calling to check on you!"  

Mother:  *long, long, longggggggggg pregnant pause*

Me:  "So is everything okay?"

Mother:  *using her "Why is this pervert calling me?" voice*  "I'm fine.  Who is this?"

Me:  *momentarily taken aback*  "Ummm... it's Danielle?"

Mother:  *sounding as if she'd never heard or spoken the name before*  "Danielle?"

Me:  "Your OTHER daughter??"

Mother:  *apparently needing a moment to recall giving birth a second time and then naming the child*  "OHHhhh... DANIELLE! I didn't recognize your voice!"

Or my name, it would seem.

Anyway.

So yeah, the leg hair is getting too long to ignore.  I'm actually at the point where I'm wondering if I should use conditioner and then blow-dry it after my shower.  (Because Lord knows I need another excuse to buy even more product.)


This has nothing to do with my blog topic but seeing it somehow makes me feel better about having really hairy legs.  



Meanwhile, the Growing Of The Leg Hair has triggered an unexpected chain reaction:

I recently have begun "forgetting" to shave my pits, also.

I know, I know.

My name is Dani and I'm disgusting.


Vive la hairy arm pits!!!




Here's how it happened:

Somehow, I managed to skip over the puddle in my gene pool that turned other members of my family into furry gnomes.  (I retained the gnome gene, but not the fur gene.)  My sister and I both burst, unscathed, from the genetic coding that ran rampant in our European heritage and managed to sail through our bikini wearing years before waxing became the norm without looking like we were smuggling small, fluffy animals in our bathing suits.  

One of us showed her gratitude by maintaining the foliage and keeping it trimmed.

The other one of us moved to northern NY and got lazy.





I noticed a week (or ten) ago that while my pit hair was growing, I only had about six hairs.  (I'm not kidding... six hairs.  On my entire arm pit.)  

It's very easy to ignore six hairs.  You can almost assume it's a shadow.  Which would occur naturally in your armpit, anyway, am I right?

They were thin and light (I'm sorry, does hearing about my pit hair offend you?) and barely visible to the naked eye.  

I pretended they weren't there.

I went about my life for the next few months weeks without worrying much about the sparse and random hairs sprouting in my arm pits.

Hairs?  What hairs?  Oh that?  It's a shadow.  

Every once in a while a little germ of a thought would enter my head, along the lines of, "Dude... seriously... shave your pits.  You're disgusting"  but I managed to quell the voices before they penetrated the portion of my brain that gives a shit about hygiene.   

Since I have fat arms and don't wander the streets with my pits showing, I figured it was no one's business but my own, right?  Many an ugly secret is hidden under clothing, yo.  Plus, if you want to know the truth, I get grossed out seeing GUY'S pit hair, so who are THEY to judge ME?

(Seriously, guys... there is nothing more disgusting than seeing your pit hair sticking out from under your arm pit when you're wearing a tank top or going shirtless.  I don't care how rock hard your abs are, I don't notice them under your pit hair.  Trim that shit.)


Hypocritical much, Danielle?


Then this morning, for the first time EVER, I put my contacts in before my shower.  I had to help Jessie with her homework, so unlike other mornings, I wasn't happily wandering around in a distorted fog.  I could see clearly.  QUITE clearly.  And it wasn't pretty.

When I climbed out of the shower, my leg hair and pit hair snapped sharply into focus.

Holy Mother of God... I have a freaking soul patch under each arm.

I look like I'm wearing those furry boots that I think are so stupid.  

Oh dear GOD.


Why would anyone want the lower half of their legs to look like they'd put stilettos on an Irish Wolfhound?  Pull your head out of your ass, Christian Louboutin.




Irish Wolfhound... in case you needed a visual.  



Long story short, I have a decision to make.

The way I see it, I have two choices:

1.  Shave all body parts sprouting unsightly hair.

2.  Never again wear contacts in the shower.



Decisions, decisions.

I'll keep you posted.

No really, I will.  It's no trouble.


You're welcome.