On a scale of bald to this guy

I’d put myself on the fluffier side of average. Day-to-day I pass for a facsimile of ‘woman with hair’, but in certain lights, I have the moustache of a 12-year-old boy who’s just learnt how to wank.

I fluctuate between letting my pits, legs and fanny get all ruggedly handsome, and ripping everything from my body in a burst of insecure rage. After a defrocking, I’m left feeling guilty about betraying what I believe to be right for me personally, but also more confident lunging on a dance floor.

Shame, relief, self-loathing; hair removal is in my experience akin to sleeping with an ex. Here’s what I’ve learnt so far:

Shaving – The First Time

I am 12. Shiny swirls of chestnut have sprouted in my underarms. I find my pit hair fascinating, and vaguely disturbing.

I board the bus into town to meet a friend (Woolworths has a new sticker photo booth installed) when two lush lads from the year above sit in front of me. One has voluminous curtains, the other a chic homage to Gary Rhodes. I overhear the following:

“Ere, did you see Becky’s hairy pits on Friday?”

“I did, mate. Manky as fuck”

I don’t know who Becky was, but her grave error in purveying spaghetti straps on mufti day allowed me to avoid committing the same heinous crime. The moment I got home, I took my mum’s orange bic, and hacked away at my gorgeous underarms.

Hair Removal Cream – Experimentation

I am 15. Healthy side burns have sprouted along my inner thighs. Not one of my friends mentions experiencing anything similar, so I can only assume that the Emmerdale extras sitting outside of my pants are an abomination.

I take myself off to Superdrug, where I stock up on Impulse (Hint of Musk – mysterious), glittery eyeliner and, as it was then known, Immac.

I apply what looks like Polyfilla and smells like Plimsolls to my muttonchops, and wait for the instructed length of time before scraping it away to reveal… severe sunburn decorated with iron filings.

Hair removal cream is a crime against science.

Waxing – Shit Just Got Real

You know how when you’re a kid you’re constantly told “Cheese is excellent for you. Eat as much of it as you can”, but then you get to 13 and it’s all “Hmmm, not sure you should be eating that much cheese. Here’s a carrot”? Well, as a young girl you are shamed into shaving – and don’t forget on PE day, whatever you do. You get to 17 and suddenly shaving is a terrible idea: it will make you even hairier and more disgusting than you already are, and if you don’t start waxing soon, you’re going to end up looking like fucking Chewbacca by the time your 35. Which is when you’re probably going to want to trick a man into making a baby with you, but your prospective victim will be so repulsed by the fact you look like this in a bikini:

That there’ll be no way of furthering your genetic legacy and becoming a mother, your would-be-baby-daddy will end up in the hairless arms of a fertile woman with fanny alopecia, and you’ll die alone with your cats, choking on a fur ball of your own creation.

I’ve been waxed by professionals, friends, an ex-boyfriend (not in some fucked up sexy way, in a functional I-can’t-get-enough-purchase-on-my-armpits way), and my sister. I’ve used cold wax, hot wax, and duct tape (toe hair emergency).

I’ve bruised. Sweated. Whimpered. Gotten covered in glue. And have developed the kind of ingrown hairs that should be donated to medical research.

A friend recently sent me this message:

Which sums it up nicely.

Bleaching – A Subtle Approach

A tash-bleaching acquaintance of mine once had the horrific experience of going to Fabric. The experience was made even more horrific upon discovery that her normally invisible bleached whiskers had been rendered into a full-blown Hulk Hogan by the UV lights.

Laser/ IPL – Disposable Income Drain

After 25 years of mutilating my Bradley Wiggins bikini line, I finally decided to spend all of my money on getting someone with a welder’s mask and a high-wattage light saber to stab-burn the hairs out of me.

My final session of pubic torture was scheduled at an ungodly 8am. I was extremely hungover, and it was mid-summer. In my clammy state, I had chosen to wear a jumpsuit with no bra.

My blood ran cold as the clinician uttered those fateful words:

“Okay then lovely, if you want to make yourself comfortable on the bed, and I’ll be back shortly”

She left the room, and returned 2 minutes later to find me naked but for some protective eyewear, and a pointless tea towel over my vagina.

As I lay there, puffing in pain, I had two thoughts:

1. Apologetic + naked go together like milk and grapefruit.
2. Instead of paying out of my arse for this experience, what I should have done is stop giving a fuck.