Hair Today...More Tomorrow

So the boys are back and the house is once again strewn with an array of toy landmines instead of Gap sale bags, till receipts and half drunk cups of coffee.

I am already exhausted by their energy - there definitely seems to be an inverse relationship between their energy and mine, as though they are little energy sapping vampires. As the day wears on, like the proverbial Duracell bunny they just go from strength to strength. I never really start the day from a position that I would honestly describe as strength and it just gets worse from there. By the time bath time rolls around I am a limp, listless deflated version of myself craving horizontal slobbing whilst watching mediocre TV.

This afternoon I had a couple of hours of free time while the boys were kicking up a storm with the babysitter and, as it's my birthday on Friday, I decided to treat myself to a beard, leg and bikini wax. Now this might not be every one's version of a 'treat' but being the masochist that I am, and there being no birch twigs nearby to flay myself with, it would have to do.

And yes, you did read it right. Beard wax. And no, I am not making a veiled reference to a certain part of my anatomy that I have often heard my sister describe as 'the bearded mussel'. Captain Underpant's incredibly generous gift to me, post birth, was the instigation of facial hair on my chin. In the past 5 years these previously dormant hair follicles have overtaken their nipple and uni brow counterparts in terms of both production and tenacity. Keeping the beard in check is now a daily concern. Oh God, how I wish I was merely writing this for comic effect.

(Johnny Drama was no less generous as it turns out. His 'gifts'? Well, obviously there is the partial lobotomy referred to in my profile. Tho this is more of a consolation prize, to dull the impact of 'gift 1' combined with 'gift 2'...a breast reduction. How it could have been physically possible for my breasts to get any smaller is beyond me. I look back at the days when I was a full A cup - yes, you did read this correctly, stop sniggering at the back - with a certain misty-eyed nostalgia. Now I am relegated to a couple of dried raisins sitting on a ribcage and it couldn't look less feminine. Even wearing a junior bra feels excessive. Combine that with the nipple and facial hair and you can see why I am a little nervous about re-entering the dating arena. And we haven't even touched on the joint 'gift' yet - the post birth nether-regions. But don't worry, we're getting there.)

Now I have always been a very hairy beast. I was born prematurely resembling more primate than human - and that look has merely amplified over time. I was hairier than all the kids at school, including the boys, and most of the teachers. One of my earliest memories was sitting in the reading corner, I was probably about 6, with my legs stretched out in front of me. Soon enough all of my so called friends, instead of reading the latest scintillating installment of Janet and John, were sniggering at my hairy legs. Cue one tearful child (that would be me, in case you were wondering) charging home and ceremoniously throwing away all her ankle socks. My mum, rather sympathetically, bought me a case full of knee length socks and tights that I wore religiously throughout my school days, irrespective of the weather and even with swimsuits, so I could avoid further humiliation.

Of course, kids being kids, this just wasn't possible. I ended up being the girl at senior school who was mocked for having hair poking through her socks. There just weren't socks thick enough to hide it. Again, one particular incident sticks in my mind of a group of the 'cool' girls standing around one lunch time teasing me that even a lawn mower wouldn't do them justice. Cruel, yes. But shamefully true.

My mum finally relented when I turned 13, bought me a battery operated shaver and gave me permission to shave them off. I was ecstatic and locked myself in the bathroom to begin the long and arduous process. After I had shaved one leg bare, and was looking at its pale and shimmering gloriousness, the batteries ran out of the shaver. It was a Sunday night. There were no more batteries in the house and I was about to go to synchronised swimming practice. My dad thought my new look was hysterical 'you look like an audition for the Black and White Minstrel show' he chortled. Cue more tears, a teenage tantrum and locking myself dramatically in the bathroom, vowing never to re-emerge. Finally my mum rescued the situation by allowing me to borrow her razor and shave the remaining leg. My initiation into the world of the smooth legged people was complete.

And it has been the bain of my life (well, one of them anyway - my rampant grey hair is right up there next to it) ever since.

So there I am this afternoon, lying on sheets of tracing paper, my ankle cranked behind my ear lobe while the technician (such a polite term for a person who, in medieval times, would surely have been the sadist grinning maliciously at you from the end of a torture rack) slathers hot wax copiously around my lady bits. I'm not even sure my gynecologist has seen my anatomy in such detail. Now when I first started waxing 20 years ago, things were pretty simple. The only pruning option was a short, back and sides and this was fine by me, thank you very much. Nowadays, it seems that it is more the norm rather than the exception for the pruning to be a little more...extensive. And ultimately, invasive. Brazilians and Hollywoods are all the rage. This has never concerned me before, because ex knew I was a short, back and sides girl (on a good day) and he either liked it or lumped it. Now I am faced with the prospect of potentially having sex with American men at some point in the future, who expect either a cue ball or a landing strip and nothing more.

I wouldn't describe myself as a wimp where pain is concerned. Surely I have proved that to all who care to doubt it by accomplishing natural child birth not once, but twice? But having the nerve to go through with a Brazilian? Just can't do it. I intend to every time I book the appointment. I am a person who likes to keep up with the times. Heaven forbid there is a trend that I am not participating in. But once my legs are akimbo, displaying practically my intestines to all and sundry, my confidence deserts me. It's all I can do to gnash my teeth down to stubs while the short, back and sides is being performed - I can't voluntarily take any more.

I actually did end up with a Brazilian once, although not voluntarily. I was 22 weeks pg at the time (what was the 'technician' thinking?) and had foolishly booked an appointment at a new salon. Before I had time to defend my poor innocent pubes, they were slavered in hot wax. All of them (well, apart from that tiny bit that's left...for dignity). 'Holy Fuck' I thought. 'There is only one way that is coming off, isn't there?' My eyes are still smarting as I recall the memory. Where there used to be hair was now a very swollen fanny dotted in blood. As the days went by, the swelling reduced and the blood eventually healed into little scabs and fell off. It certainly didn't look 'normal' to me but at least it no longer resembled a freshly plucked chicken rump.

And then I went into labour. Of course, I was still only 22 weeks and a matter of days pg. During the 3 days I was in hospital I was examined in mortifying detail by many high-risk specialists. I think one would have done - they all reached the same conclusion after all - the others were just there to see the pg strumpet in room 522. I tried to explain it to one of the nurses at one point, but I don't think it was as unusual for her as it was for me. Now on reflection I am glad that my one and only foray into extensive pubic topiary was witnessed by half of the male doctors in Chicago. I have more than enough proof that, albeit by force, I did subject myself to a Brazilian at least once in this lifetime.

And of course, having been through vaginal childbirth a couple of times, there isn't just the pain to consider is there? I mean, it is now freakin' obvious why the hair is there in the first place...to disguise the distorted war zone that used to be my neat and tidy vagina pre-kids. Remove too much hair - combine it with the raisin tits and chin stubble - and I am going to be reduced to shagging guys with a penchant for lady boys.