Hello,
I have slunk out from under my moss-covered cave once more to write. I don't think anyone actually reads this blog, but this is mostly just my online diary, in any case.
(If you are reading this blog, welcome [back]. Yes, I'm still alive.)
I now live in Edmonton, where it is cold and dark 75% of the year. Hence, I am grumpy 75% of the year. But spring has sprung, so here I am to stretch these writing muscles after so much hibernation.
Speaking of hibernation, bears. Speaking of bears, they are furry. As am I. Segue into another story about waxing. *applause*
I am still as hairy as ever, so one would imagine that I am fertile, hormone-abundant, full of health and vitality, all other virtues of perfection, etc., etc..
Yet, when I went into my local salon to wax my winter layers away, please explain why I apologized thrice to my aesthetician for being so unkempt. So shaggy.
To be fair to myself, by societal standards, I was the embodiment of Planet of the Apes. I am gifted with thick, coarse, black hair that likes to stand strong and proud instead of lie flat (those non-submissive little bastards! - how dare they reflect my own personality?).
As much as I like to think I don't care how I look as a woman, I clearly still carry this subconscious shame that I grow hair. Which is ridiculous. It's like saying:
"Sorry I have eyebrows, eyelashes, and hair on my head," or,
"Sorry I have nails, they just won't stop growing!" or,
"Sorry my skin is tan in colour."
I have body hair because I am a female who has passed puberty (physically - mentally is another thing). It grows and I cannot help it. Neither should I have to stop this growth (laser treatments, anyone?), nor should I have to remove it (yet I do), nor should I feel bloody embarrassed about it (yet I do). Dafuq?
Pretty sure I've already discussed this on my blog, but this is my 2017 take on it. So suck it.
K bye.
