“The children! Think of the CHILDREN!!!” I heard my brain screech.
As I observed the literal fallout after pulling on my bathers for the first time since the previous summer, I knew I had to do something. Something dramatic. Something I’d avoided my entire adult life.
I’d always been a shaver kind of girl. I had my eyebrows waxed for the very first time when I was 27 years old.
This did NOT encourage me to have the hair ripped mercilessly out of any other parts of my body. Special parts. Private parts.
Watch: The hairy history of pubic hair. Post continues below.
When I used to go to one of my kinder Mum’s places to get my eyebrows and upper lip waxed, back in my 30s, my reaction caused my middle child to stop what he was doing, march into the room, and take my hand in support.
His little four-year-old faced looked up at me with concern. He then turned his gaze toward the sadist with the wax pot. She jumped back with a startled whimper. “Why are you hurting my Mum?” he glowered.
The advent of COVID and winter were a blessing to me, in many ways.
The layering of clothing meant that my body hair was free to grow in, the way nature intended, without alarming anybody within close proximity.
As for the mask-wearing… I’ve not known such facial freedom since before I had my babies.
Wiry black chin hairs, my ‘stache (the envy of pubescent boys throughout the lands), and any newly developing smatterings of facial hair were let loose, free from the judgement and ridicule that we Aussie mongrel half-breed types constantly dread.