Hair War

More procrastination here, and this time, when it's the eleventh chapter that should be uppermost in mind, it's unwanted hair that consumes my thoughts.
 A year ago, when I was bullied by an offspring to rid myself of underarm growth, as she had planned for herself, I imagined a few short trips to the parlour would deliver glorious smooth armpits. Most importantly, I imagined pale skin with no trace of shadow, and I loved the idea of that. I'd been self conscious about my hair shadow since some loser commented about it many sleeveless summer frocks ago. It seems men think shadows on male (face) cheeks are edgy and cool, but it's a different story for women's armpits. Years of shaving had not eradicated the imprint of hair and I'd never felt brave enough for the rip and tear of hot wax thaty worked fine for my sister.

I trawled the internet beforehand. Perhaps laser hair removal was dangerous. Maybe I should think twice before I allowed a consultant with unknown training to fry my delicate, precious skin. I learned that armpit hair evolved, so it must have had some use even if it was expendable for professional athletes and just about every female I know. One of my twitter pals suggested babies might have grabbed hold when their parents were fleeing danger. I love that theory, but my kids are not getting anywhere near my armpits.

‘Keep your underarm hair’ websites claimed we have skin cells under there that become, with deforestation, a seething mess of inflamed tissue. Sebum and bacteria would find themselves homeless and their plight would resemble that of the Amazonian spider monkey, except that with global deforestation, homeless creatures are destroyed or forced to move. If I denuded, apparently invaders would retaliate, burrowing into my skin to cause itch, odour and unsightly nappy rash-like symptoms.

Infection-fighting hair? It beggared belief. I decided underarm hair belonged in the same category as tonsils and appendix: if it bothered, get rid of it.

There is inadequate space here to discuss the frightening trend whereby all traces of bodily hair is  permanently removed. Apparently the prepubescent look is fashionable. Enough said, else I will need to gag.

In the chilly depths of wintery research that became the lead up to laser, I regrew my armpit hair to see how it felt, supporting those friendly parasites. Smelly and itchy and worse, I became dependent on chemical deodorizing when, prior to that shortlived experiment, a salt stick had always worked fine.

With the offspring, I found a salon in the local mall that offered an irresristable deal. Ten laser sessions for the price of three wax jobs. Inside, the ambient temperature was arctic, but there was a muted calm in the frosty air. I heard the slight strains of rainbow music. I heard water trickling and all the  beautiful sounds of nature. The women wore white. Their outfits and teeth matched the walls.

A smiling technician placed a pulsating wand on my underarm. The smell of burnt hair the prickly sting took my breath away and curled my toes. I hoped for no serious consequences down the track.

Afdterwards we went for coffee and I listened to the offspring declare how easy it was. Together we pracised this bonding ritual another nine times before the expert pronounced me "done".

So why am I pondering on deforestation when I should be producing quality literature? Because the hair might be gone but that stubborn shadow remains.