Not immobilized and writhing in agony sick.
More like wet cat food complexion sick.
Or homeless grandmother looking sick.
Nevertheless, I went outside today.
And I walked the dog, wearing skirt and pants as one. Giant batwing cardigan and skidoo jacket, paired with fringe moccasins.
I am unhinged.
I watched all of Transparent yesterday. To say it’s good is like saying the Rockies are nice.
It’s a champion of diversity. It’s what television was meant to do. It questions, pushes and accepts all of it.
It’s a giant FUCK YOU AND YOUR BEAUTY STANDARDS. It’s a YOU ARE ENOUGH in 28 minutes and made me want to embrace my underarm hair (removed really only to appease others), wear a fringe vest and not give a shit.
I remember being in the change room of a now defunct street wear shop. Trying on jeans, silently ashamed of the above 30 number on the inner tag, I bought them despite their tightness. As I was coming in and out of the change room, I noticed the girl next to me. Undercut, a gym class pinney, skinny jeans in 2003. She was the original hipster. And as she nonchalantly tried on tops, she exposed what would be an unforgettable image to me, unshaved armpits.
Had I seen them before? Sure, on my mom, my French relatives, and maybe somebody at Lillith Fair, but never someone that I would have, at the time, considered a peer. A cool one at that.
And it was the unapologetic air with which she both raised and lowered her shirts, standing in a bra, in the middle of a store. In daylight.
I am here, and I am enough. Ungroomed armpits and all.
Now, I enjoy a good groomed eyebrow, I really do. I believe I may have even suffered from overpluck from 1994-2001. See Drew Barrymore in Riding In Cars, for full effect. I also happen to vehemently dislike my beard, which is enjoying a revival thanks to my Ebola state of late.
I say this to illustrate that I am more than 10000000% on board with hair removal that you dislike. What I’m challenged by is hair removal for the sole purpose of conformity, of which I am totally guilty.
Everytime I see a woman with a little patch of fur, my inner cheerleader double jump kicks and yells
And yet evertime I need to impose my own armpits on the public, out come the clippers.
I know, it’s probably not for you. I get that, but part of my own growing up is accepting that sometimes, I’m not gonna be for everyone.
I looked back at my winter capsule wardrobe this week, while I curtailed out of my plague, and I admired its efficiency, and its style. But I have to admit that it had an hint of conformity that didn’t sit well with me.
And so, emboldened by Marfa, Jen Gotch, GABBY FUCKING HOFFMAN’S polka dotted eyeshadow, I pledge to avoid conforming so much in my next capsule wardrobe.
And maybe I’ll just beat them to the finish line and dye my hair grey instead of pink and happily sport my armpit hair with the same nonchalance and grace as the Original Hipster.
But in the meantime, more Nyquil.