Chitra Ramswamy: ‘It was a waste of time. Kind of like housework. Beds only have to be remade, dishes rewashed, legs shaved again’

Published on 03/06/2012 14:01

I'M GOING to tell you a secret. I have body hair. Not just on my head, where apparently it’s acceptable and can, with the right kind of styling, even be attractive.

I’m talking about the other kind. The kind that grows thickly in dips and hollows. The kind that bursts forth from briefs and bikinis. The kind that is ringed in magazines if you are Julia Roberts and happen to lift your arm during the 1990s. The kind that, on a woman, is apparently disgusting.

My admittance into Woman Wookieedom started a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. A galaxy called Puberty. This was when a terrifying thing happened to your bald-bodied correspondent. I grew body hair and, as all gals will recall, it was war. I shaved my forearms, then made a regrettable pre-emptive strike by taking a razor to my legs, though there was nothing yet there to raze. When Tiny-but-Deadly noticed the cruel teenage sprouting on my upper lip (as in, she pointed and laughed), I bought a jar of Jolen cream and bleached it in a state of hormonal panic. My teen tache turned tangerine.

So began a decade of waxing and plucking, shaving and snipping. Hair and shame ... to me and every other razor-wielding girl I knew, they seemed as entwined as a fat plait. God, it was a waste of time. Kind of like housework. Beds only have to be remade, dishes rewashed, legs shaved again.

In my 20s, I began to realise that life didn’t have to be like this. I decided to treat shaving as I do housework. I would do it, but only when I felt like it. In the winter I grew my armpit hair long and luscious, making mini hot water bottle covers for my underarms. In the summer, I enjoyed the breezy freedom of shaved legs or was hirsute and proud. It may not be a consistent stance, but why the hell should it be? It’s my body. I can cry if I want to.

Let me do a quick inventory. My big toes have a couple of hairs apiece, sprouty, thick and dark. Actually, all my hair is thick and dark. I’m Indian. This is worth a mention because apparently dark body hair is even more repellent than the blonde kind – I’m guessing that’s because it’s easier to point and laugh at, and thus to burn on to one’s repulsed retinas. Any woman with dark hair will have at some point experienced the cruel sympathy of the blonde, smooth-skinned friend who strokes your shaggy arm as she says with tears in her eyes, “You poor monkey. I’m just so lucky my hair is invisible.”

Anyway, to continue on this journey into the hirsute heart of darkness ... My calves are covered in a soft fuzz. I shaved them about a month ago, and because I only do it sporadically, it doesn’t grow back with much stubbly insistence. Thighs? Hairy in a long, hippie-ish, friendly way. This is the one area of my body that has never seen a razor, wax strip or whirring grind of an Epilady. It’s like the test site for how life might have been without societal pressures on women. Bikini line? Well, let’s just say there’s no line on a bikini that this creature wouldn’t cross. Arms? They’ve come through the razor years. Eyebrows? Bushy. So, there you have it. But what of the tangerine tache? Fear not, it has never again seen a jar of bleach, and is now regularly dispatched with a wax strip and a defiant attitude. Well, we all have our vices.