Hair Cares

Sometimes, and only sometimes, I do like to ramble. Here's one I prepared earlier:

I will admit it once and for all: I am scared, or at least highly suspicious, of women who can go out in the middle of winter wearing only a pair of heels, a tiny mini-skirt, some shredded scrap of singlet, a teensy weensy jacket (often so small it is exposing midriff) and a skimpy g-string (if the viewing audience is lucky, or not, depending on one’s perspective). They never have any body hair, barely even any eyebrows, and although I recognise the principal of most body heat being lost through the head SURELY a big bouffant of styling product and curls cannot compensate for the near-nakedness of the rest of one’s skin. Can it? I do want to know though, who ARE these women? Are they human? Highly drugged? Aside from the apparent immunity to cold and bodily baldness, other common denominators seem to be a tendency towards vacuous yet smutty innuendo, drinking vodka shots and sleeping around with whoever is telling them they are the prettiest that night. Sort of homecoming queen meets riot grrl meets 5-year-old beauty pageant entrant, without any sense of irony.

I recently had the joy of being in an odd situation with one of these creatures, plus two of the sort of quasi-butch admirers such things attract. You know, the ones with faux-Sailor Jerry tattoos and too much attitude, quick with a joke and a light of your smoke and playing the no-good bachelor bad-ass card (without any sense of irony either- SNAP!). The butch most likely to was hitting on me, and as they were all getting a cab to a destination right near my hostel I agreed to split the fare, and somehow suddenly I had been persuaded to come upstairs for wine and shenanigans. Somewhere between alcohol courses, Miss Nearly Naked 2008 lost her knickers and became entangled with the quieter butch, leaving the butch most likely to jumping me on the couch. At which point the princess realises that somebody else (and a creepy genderqueer thing with underarm hair and a shaved head at that) was getting some of her attention and orders us that we can’t shag on her couch. I snuck out at the first opportunity and then I walk home, intoxicated and thanking my lucky stars for this spot of semi-rejection luck. Ego intact, and knowing that all was right in the world.

The next day I do the film shoot, meet someone genuine (i.e. the Real Deal), and when I am with her having a beer in The Lexington the butch most likely to comes over to the table. I can’t be arsed talking to her really, but somehow we become engaged in a conversation about body hair. Apparently, I and my furry parts are ‘like, so 80s’ and thus entirely unshaggable. Oh, dear. Thankfully the Real Deal doesn’t agree, and has never shaved anything, and so we roll around all night like a couple of old hippies. Much more my style.