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Overgrowth

Oh dear God the hair. It’s fucking everywhere. And there’s just so much of it. I made the mistake of looking at myself in the mirror with the lights on and now I’m trying not to cry again. I really need some professional help. Real help. For starters the hair on my head looks like Helena Bonham Carter and Slash got into a fight and their locks got locked. What was once curls now resembles really old velcro. It’s probably a good thing that I can’t go out. Babies would cry. I look like I could hex your grandmother.

And the hair on the top of my head is the best bit. The rest is even more disturbing. My eyebrows are obviously lonely. They’re rebuking social distancing and are attempting to meet in the middle. I also seem to have developed a permanent five o’clock shadow above my lip. In the same way that women who live together end up with synchronised periods I’m really worried that my body is adjusting to the testosterone levels of the 4 males in the house. At this rate I’m about a week away from actual stubble. On my fucking face.

I already have stubble everywhere else. What used to be a reasonably tidy bikini line now looks like a christmas turkey that someone got bored of plucking. It scratches like sandpaper and is growing back in patches. I feel as if I have chicken pox from the waist down. The itch is insanity. There isn’t a razor in the house that is up to the job. I’ve contemplated using the hair clippers that we confiscated off my husband but I’m just too scared. I don’t want to end up in A&E right now and given the terrible job I did with middle son’s hair, accidentally cutting off my own labia is a definite possibility.

I thought that an epilator might be a better option. FUCK NO. Don’t try it. If you weren’t crying before then you definitely will be after this. Slowly attempting to rip out your own pubic hair with an electrical appliance is the least fun thing you’ll do this week. (Other than homeschool. Homeschool is way worse.) Fuck I miss the professionals. I never thought I’d whole heartedly miss a stranger pouring burning wax over my exposed arsehole to remove everything, including my dignity. It turns out that I really really do.


So I’ve given up. I’ve accepted the situation until I can get help from a brave lady with some serious training. I’m just letting everything grow. I’ve even seen my armpit hair for the first time ever. It’s actually straight. I mean, who knew?! I’m aiming for plaits. By the end of lock down I’ll be able to cut them off and donate them to The Little Princess Trust. The hair on my feet is significantly less useful. I’m not sure if it’s age or hormones but even my big toes are getting in on the act and the situation is getting worse by the day. Hair is now spreading down from my bikini line and up from toes. Eventually it’s going to meet in the middle and only my knees will be visible; small white moons in a matted darkness.

I really hope the waxing-professionals are ready for the end of lockdown. They’re going to need an awful lot of fucking wax.

And maybe a lawn mower.

 
 

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