Hairy Life

These machines are from the devil. Commonly known as “The Epilator”, but more aptly called “The Torturer”. They are used to de-hair the female body. With a rotating head filled with tweezer demons, they meticulously pull out One. Hair. At. A. Time. And it hurts like hell.

I have one of these. It lives in the draw next to my bed. And it laughs at me every time I open that wretched drawer.

I put off using it. Allowing my leg hair to grow to unsightly lengths in an attempt to avoid the inevitable. I procrastinate on the task for days, if not weeks. Finding anything to do, but self-inflict pain. Procrastination is a funny thing. While causing us to avoid the things we dislike most, it forces us to do the things we dislike almost as much. Like washing dishes. Or cleaning out the cat’s litter box.

Eventually, when the self-loathing has reached an all-time high and I can feel my leg hairs blowing in the wind, I psyche myself up. And do the deed.

I talk myself through the process. Reminding myself of the rewards. I will be able to wear shorts or a pretty dress on the sweltering Durban days, instead of hiding and sweating in jeans. I will be able to join my friends at the beach instead of having to politely decline with the morbid excuse that my legs aren’t quite beach-ready.

I remind myself that the pain is worth it. And that it doesn’t last long. Some spots need more convincing than others. And I push through. After a few minutes the pain turns to numbness or I find a less sensitive spot to focus on. Until I’m ready to tackle the ankles again. Or the top of my right thigh. Just think how lovely they’re going to look and feel when they’re done. Last patch now Heather, you’re almost there!

And while I’m going through this exercise with teeth clenched and positive affirmations racing through my head, I think. And I realize that this is very much like life. It gets messy. Cleaning up the mess is painful and often I do everything I can to avoid that pain. But, eventually, when I’ve had enough, I am ready. And I can face the mess and the pain, knowing it will be worth it when I come out the other side. The only way to get through it is to go through it. And, most often, it’s not as bad as I anticipated. When I’m done, feeling what I need to, experiencing what I have to, the rewards are great. I feel better. Lighter. More free. I don’t have to hide or avoid anymore. Maybe, next time, I won’t leave it for so long!