Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow
While I’ve never actually listened to it, I think the title to Deana Carter’s song is ingenious: “Did I Shave My Legs for This?” Because now that I’m divorced, I realize that the frequency with which I shaved was directly proportional to how lucky I might get. These days there’s no one unluckier than me, thus my legs are, well, let's not go there (no one else is, right?).
But I didn’t realize just how poorly, *ahem*, maintained I had become until I was reading to Spunk a few nights ago. We were reclining on his bed, and I held a Junie B. Jones book in one hand and supported my head with the other, giving my little boy a bird’s eye view of my armpit. He looked sideways at me and laughed, “You’ve got hair there?” as if he had just discovered some fangs or a third eyeball. And I have to admit, when I took a peek myself I was a little disturbed. While my lower extremities are definitely a no-fly zone these days, had I really been that neglectful of my armpits? I mean, long sleeves are now vogue, but I thought I was still shaving my armpits, even if only for myself. And Spunk, apparently.
So it got me reflecting on my celibacy, my sexuality and my razor. Are the first two mutually exclusive? Are the last two?
I’m LDS. Mormon. And it’s one of the reasons I have chosen to remain celibate if and until I remarry. That, at times, makes for a seriously frustrated big girl, although I have plenty to distract me, being outnumbered by my kids and all. But even celibate, can I be sexual? Or sensual? Or attractive? And are all those things even related?
Even if I don’t have all the answers, I’ve decided that shaving may reflect on how I see myself as a woman.
The other day my kids were talking about a ‘No Girls Allowed’ sign Spunk had taped to his door.
“What about mom?” Sis asked.
“She doesn’t count,” Spunk answered, leading me to believe that to children Mothers fall somewhere outside the realm of human, and farther still outside the female realm. We’re an entity unto ourselves, a genus and species above playground duties and beneath Santa.
That being said, just because I’m outnumbered by my children doesn’t mean I have to see myself that same way. I am woman, hear me roar, or at least check me out and tell me I have a cute butt.
But if I were really to do something for myself, it probably wouldn’t be shaving. I would get a massage. Although, now that I think about it, I would shave before getting a massage, just like I would clean before having a housekeeper come over.
So maybe the answer is in a regular, two-hour detoxing massage.
Two birds, one stone, smooth armpits.
(P.S. If you want to set me up with someone, please do not refer them to this particular post. And if you know my mother, don’t tell her about it either. Thank you.)