EVERY DAY I am saddened by the state of the world and EVERY DAY I fail to summon the words to perfectly convey my angst. Today my gripe surrounds the state of women’s bodies; more specifically, the actual physical state of women’s body hairs. “What ignited the daily anger and disappointment in you today, Queen of All Things Rant-Related?”, I hear you ask, expectantly. Answer: Miley Cyrus and her armpit hair.
Yep, you read that right: A.R.M.P.I.T H.A.I.R.
You might, foolishly, assume that I’m reiterating myself to clearly convey the horror of the situation (“THAT WOMAN HAS HAIR IN THE PITS OF HER ARMS?! Well don’t just stand there – BURN HER AT THE STAKE ALREADY!”) but you’d be cataclysmically wrong.
I love Miley Cyrus. She’s a little zany (read: unconventional and therefore eternally branded with alternative descriptors). She has, IMHO, excellent style and access to clothes I could only dream of donning. She’s expressive. She’s clearly got a strong set of pipes on her. She looks utterly sensational with a bleached choppy ‘do. And, best of all, she’s unique. Admittedly, being unique isn’t anything new. Set the irony of the following sentence aside and I think you’ll agree: we’re all unique. Difference is that in a world where there’s a general consensus of conformity – in which we’re all clambering towards acceptance and crumbling under the weight of crippling expectations (particularly those prescribed upon the female form) – Miley stands for The Individual. She goes against the grain we’ve been drip-fed since we were able to digest more than just breast milk. Her Instagram, much like her onstage ‘antics’ and widely catalogued persona, isn’t the curated feed of perfection that we’re used to. It’s a bit trippy, there’s more Elvis than you’d expect to see, there’s about as many tongues as you’d expect to see, there are a lot of starred-out nipples (seriously, Instagram, free the fucking nipple already) and a smattering of sublime arse cracks – namely Nicki Minaj’s. And then there was armpit hair.
How the utter fuck is it possible that, in 2015, I am writing a blogpost on the follicular state of a woman’s armpit? In the words of Queen: “Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? Caught in a landslide, no fucking escape from this bloody exasperating reality.” Okay, I may have ad-libbed slightly, but you get my drift. The comments on the post largely go as such: ‘OMG hairy armpits?!’, ‘bruh, your pits *vomit emoji*’, ‘itz so eww’, ‘damn shave that pit *crying with laughter emoji*’ and so on and so forth. Top calibre commentary, I think you’ll agree. Among the horrified and hysterical commenters are a few Logical Humans – politely pointing out that armpit hairs are natural and ‘each to their own’ – equally horrified that they’re having to explain the normality of the humble armpit hair; I thoroughly appreciate their attempts to bring about some sort of sanity to proceedings. And the Logical Humans are undeniably correct. Newsflash: WE ALL HAVE ARMPIT HAIR. It’s true, we do! All of us. Even Kim K! Even Beyonce! Even your favourite, plucked-to-be-fucked, female porn-star! Some of us just prefer to shave or wax or laser the hairs off, much like pubes and leg hair and basically all the hairs that exist on our beings. IT’S PERSONAL PREFERENCE, PEOPLE!
I’ve previously written a graphic tale of waxing horror, detailing the traumatising lengths I have gone to to have my female fibres ripped, mercilessly, from my being (you can find it here), but my predilection for a hair-free fanny in no way dictates how I expect others to treat their fannies. Same goes for my pits. And it saddens and maddens me immensely that so many people – women, girls, men and boys alike – are horrified at the sight of… hair. In the grand scheme of universal problems, this may seem like a meagre one; but it’s not, not really. The unbridled horror slewn across Miley’s photo is indicative of a problem that runs so much deeper than the hairs adorning her pits. To be repulsed by such a thing is to repulsed by a perfectly natural part of the human form; and that, in turn, brings about a whole shit-heap of shame and pressure for those who prefer to exercise their right and preference to exist as they wish to, comformity-aside. It’s a vicious cycle and one that’s constantly perpetuated by all means of societal outlets that proffer upon us how we should look. I paid a visit to the dastardly Daily Mail the other day to find an entire article dedicated to Selena Gomez and her ‘sensational curves’. There’s no denying that curves are sensational, but the undertone of the entire literary piece of shit was that she had curves – and we all know that that’s just Daily Mail talk for ‘has gained weight’. One comment beneath the diatribe read: “She looks so happy without JB. She just has to watch her weight.” FORREAL, THO? Drop me out.
The world has gone mad. You, and you alone, are the sailor of your ship. If you want a smooth finish then, by all means, sand down and strip your ship. If you like the state of your ship just as it is then, by all means, live happily within your ship. If you like to mix things up onboard then, please, mix it the fuck up! Just do not, for the love of Kanye, think that it’s acceptable to seize and steer anyone else’s ship. And please stop shivering me fucking timbers.