Like you, Lucy Sweet knows that women don’t smell of rose petals and daydreams, and she’s not scared to explore the festering bucket of glorious parping, stinking humanity that is reality. In this week’s column she faces up to WEIRD HAIR
Illustration by Louise Boulter
Most women have a reliable bag of tricks on hand to cover up unwanted blemishes, like wearing scarves indoors, putting your hands over your face, and/or sticking Haribo onto your pustules (the fried egg ones work best).
Yet sometimes, an intruder enters our midst. In the dead of night – or halfway through a conversation – something springs out of our chin with the texture and strength of Brian Blessed’s pubes.
This, my friends, is a WEIRD HAIR.
Weird hair is uniquely embarrassing, because it appears in places it shouldn’t, completely ruining your carefully curated image as a healthy, attractive, vital woman. Nobody wants to wake up to find that they’re Grotbags from Emu’s World. Weird hair speaks of warty hags, witches and ancient old ladies – the sort of feared, voodoo women that were once burnt at stakes and pelted with tomatoes.
Weird hair is not to be confused with regular female body hair. The latter, sometimes erroneously called ‘fuzz’ by lady hair-removal companies (despite more often than not being like a thatched roof made from a horse’s mane), at least has the decency to congregate in one area. It might poke out of your bikini, flap in fronds under your pits, or sprout luxuriantly on your upper lip, but at least it’s in a designated spot.
Weird hair is a totally different kettle of pubes. It’s hair gone rogue. It’s the follicular equivalent of Katie Hopkins – it can just turn up anywhere and ruin everything. From chins to eyebrows, these single hairs sprout like a mysterious mushroom after the rain. I once had a hair on my nipple so long and strong you could have used it to slice a truckle of stilton (HELLO BOYS).
All we can do is a tried and tested move called the ‘panic pluck.’ This manoeuvre involves yanking out the offending follicle with such speed and forcefulness that tears spring to our eyes. The pain is hideous, but the pain of having a three-inch hair sticking out of your face is stronger.
Yet there is an alternative to our hairy woes: we could make peace with our weird hairs, embrace them. How about we make an attractive feature by stringing beads on them according to taste or religious beliefs? (A rosary for Catholics; red, gold and green for Rastafarians etc.) Or we could cultivate other hairs to join in, creating a nice full beard like Tolstoy.
Or at the party, when the boring bloke inevitably gets out a guitar, just twang the opening chords to Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now on a hairy nipple string. Then EVERYONE will want one. Right?
Lucy Sweet is a writer and incorrigible lard arse. Her nursery school teacher said she would never be a proper lady, and she was right.