my lifelong struggle.

So I have this problem. And who better to kvetch with than my friends of West Blogoslovakifornia? Nobody, that's who. I'm going to be honest with you, because I am pretty much honest, unlike my good pal WRH, who posits that all women are liars. And yes, I meant posits, not post-its, which are things, unlike posits which is cinnonamous with theorizes. Get with it.

Anyway.

I'm hairy.

Seriously. Hairy. And I'm pretty sure that's why my birth parents gave me up for adoption. And I'm also pretty sure that these people? Are my biological family.

The Hairy Face Family

Or maybe Ma Hairy Face had an affair with the Fire-Eating Lion Tamer, and was afraid that I would come out looking all smooth-skinned and clean shaven and whatnot, and Pa Hairy Face would find out and get all pissed off and, I don't know, clip her beard or something. The horror!

I remember in elementary school, we were attempting to playing basketball, and the pretty girl brushed up against me and squeed with shock at the sleek mink coat my forearms were wearing.

Ach, and my legs? I'm going to save you the regurgitive experience that is the detailed description of how 'zactly gross they were, just know this: shaving your legs is for when you're older. (As are contacts, small-framed glasses, calling boys, and staying up past 9:30. But clearly, I survived. And also? I shave now.)

I was on the Junior High Swim Team. It was all kinds of fun. I was a pretty decent swimmer, backstroke was my strong suit. We don't have poolside seating for spectators; there's a mezzanine overlooking the swimming pool, with big plexiglass windows to keep the humidity in (or out, depending on where you sit). The plexiglass was quite hard to see through, as it was covered in fingerprinty smudges, scratches, and condensation.

EVEN SO, my mother someone actually said to me: When did you start shaving your armpits? I noticed when you were swimming.

I was swimming backstroke, and from a hundred or so feet away, my mother AND THE ENTIRE WORLD could gaze upon my hairy armpits.

Excuse me whilst I go suck my thumb FOREVER.

In high school, I ran track for a while, and trust me, I use the word RUN very loosely. One time I got third place in the 800 or 1500 meter something or other, but only because the coach would not. shut. up. Moving on.

One of the local schools had, maybe still has, a very hairy coach. And I am not even kidding. I've created a high-quality illustration to make my point:

the other team's coach.

big brown dots = enormous quantity of hair.

yes, I think he had hair for feet.

and yes, locals, the color scheme just might be indicative of the team.

One look at that man changed my life forever. I began tweezing like a madwoman. I started shaving my arms. Yes, I said I shave my arms. Because there is no way I could continue to let the legacy of The Hairy Face Family pollute this beautiful earth we live on. My mother Someone said to me, You know once you start shaving your arms you'll never be able to stop because it will grow in thicker and more coarse and I replied THAT IS THE POINT. I WILL NEVER STOP. NEVER NEVER NEVEREVEREVEREVEREVER.

Uncle Lion Face, I'm sorry. I just can't.

Other random hairy relative, I believe there's a better way.

And to my biological mother, it's not that I don't appreciate what you've done for me. It's not that I'm really ashamed to associate with you, well, much, anyway. I just need to feel like a natural woman. And by natural, naturally I mean smooth and unhairy.

Because I can't grow up looking like grandma.

And I have to say unhairy, even though it's not a word, because oh my word, have you ever consulted The Googles about hai.ry wo.man in order to find pictures for a blog post about being hairy? I couldn't even read the first page or I would have gone straight to hell, no passing go, no $200.