When I was in grade five, during the heat of early summer, I would wear a cardigan to school.
Some kids would ask if I was hot, to which I’d answer, ‘I’m fine.’ Truthfully, I was boiling. But sweating like a pig was a better option than exposing my hairy arms and being
teased by my classmates. ‘Monkey
arms,’ is what the mean girls would call me, revealing their limited exposure
to other cultures, and our hairy Mediterranean sisters.
Later, I was delighted to find that my best friend Kathy
Morgan also had hairy arms. She wasn’t shy about showing them off, and would twist the hairs between moistened fingers, to see if she could twirl them
into a tiny stand-up ponytail. Eventually, even she got tired of the hair, and
one afternoon before the high school prom, she shaved them.
Many years later, I was standing on a bus in Korea.
Not only was I the tallest person, but also the hairiest. My arm was extended
upwards, holding on to a strap. Dark eyes were discreetly looking up at my pale
hirsute skin. Once again, I was flooded with that old self-conscience feeling. I thought about the offending hairs, and wished them
away.
But oh how things have changed! Recently I was going through
my post bath ritual of dousing myself in moisturizing cream. I noticed, not for
the first time, how I hairless I really am. Every place that hair should be on a
regular gal is silky smooth on me. Except for my 14 eyelashes, I am as smooth
as a baby’s arse.
Hairy Arm (foreground) & Hairy Dog (background) |
That is, except for my arms. I have seen them everyday since
I was born, and examining them pretty closely since grade five. But only in the last
few days did it occur to me that the arms on my hair is still mostly there. True- it's thinned a little, and the hairs are fine and blonde, but at a time where my body has
sometimes let me down, my loyal limbs have stubbornly refused to desert me.
This morning (while watching Coronation Street) I did
something I haven’t done since high school. I licked my fingers, (a la Kathy
Morgan) grasped the hairs, and twisted them into delicate spirals, and they stood in triumph on my dry, sun-deprived skin. Childhood shame had been replaced with grown-up pride. I couldn’t stop looking at my arms, which looked
so alive, and wonderfully familiar. My monkey arms. Loyal friends.
So, many years ago, in a classroom kept at a toasty 90 degrees, I covered my arms with a sweater. In these chilly days of
winter, when I meet friends for coffee, I am going to wear a short sleeved
shirt.
‘You must be cold,’ they’ll say.
‘I’m fine,’ I’ll reply, ‘But look at my arms, and check out the hairs! My hairs
are standing on end.’
Alas, I managed to keep my hairy big toes throughout...though my dreaded arm hair did leave temporarily (and Kathy Morgan and I are sympatico....I too could twist and stand my hair up on my arms in a proud ponytail). Sad/glad to say it is back - and so too are the waxing sessions, razor burn, tucking and pulling of the bathing suit bottom and 20x magnifying mirror to pluck my once gone eyebrows (now back a little less 'full' and I actually have to augment with a pencil). ALXO
ReplyDeleteHairy girls rock! Let's start a club. Monthly meeting at the Stillwater spa, followed by post-waxing cocktails atop the Park Hyatt.
ReplyDeleteI've been epilating my arms lately. If I grow them back, can I come too? I used to bleach religiously when I was younger. Everyone used to ask if I was Greek. Hello? Does "Pratt" sound Greek to you?
ReplyDelete