It’s quite simple, really: the shorter the day’s get, the longer my hairs get. Legs. Pits. Fanny. The tuft trifecta, if you will. Occasionally I’ll notice my nostrils sprouting a few unsightly fibres but if there’s anything more eye-watering than plucking hairs from the inner crevice of your snozz, I’m yet to experience it. (This coming from a woman who endured an intimate wax so harrowing, the entirety of her vagina scabbed over. Yep, you read that right: SCABBED. OVER.) During the summer months, the tuft trifecta is kept relatively growth free, thanks to Bic (keeping legs silky smooth on the cheap since day dot) and a monthly appointment with my local butcher (OK, fanny waxer). But in the winter? Boy oh boy, does it germinate!
‘But why, Daisy? What’s the point? Why not just fuck the patriarchy and let your hair grow wild and free ALL FUCKING YEAR LONG?! TO HELL WITH BOYS! TO HELL WITH BIC!’ I hear you, but the thing is… I love being hair free. I live for that freshly plucked chicken aesthetic. My idea of a fun night in is scouring my vag for ingrown hairs and prizing them out with all the glee of the Grinch stealing Christmas. I will continue to fight the patriarchy for as long as I live – there’s no doubt about that – and I will do so with limbs as smooth as the underbelly of a dolphin.
Now that’s out the way, allow me to elaborate on exactly why I intend on letting my body grass grow bountiful this winter:
1. WARMTH!! Duh. Leg hair is nature’s tights (I should get that put on a t-shirt or something). Which is great if, like me, you absolutely hate tights.
2. MONEY!! Do you know how much I spend each month getting my lady garden landscaped? £40. Do you know how many glasses of mulled cider I can get for £40? Enough to forget that my lady garden resembles Devil’s snare.
3. SCIENCE!! One word, three syllables: pheromones. According to science, pubes ‘waft sexual pheromones to potential mates’. In short: I will reach peak sexy this winter. Thanks, science.
4. TIME!! I have very roughly calculated that, this year alone, I’ve spent 860 minutes bent over in the shower, shaving my calves and accidentally slicing the shit out of my ankles. (I’ve also ruined at least 22 towels thanks to the latter.) That’s 860 minutes that could’ve been better spent writing my memoir. Or training for a marathon. Or sleeping.
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So, there you have it: long hair, don’t care. Normal programming (read: pruning and plucking) will resume shortly but, for now, please excuse me… There’s a mulled cider at the bar with my name over it.