Egg.  Rotting egg with a hint of vinegar and dead roses. 

That’s what the hair removal cream I am currently using smells like.  It does the job and my armpits as smooth as a baby’s bottom, but the stench stays for days.  I once raised my arms in a crowd and the disgusting odor knocked unsuspecting bystanders unconscious, sparking fears of a massive toxic gas attack.  And in the morning mist you can see a sickly yellow-green vapor seeping out from under my shirt.

It doesn’t help that when the smell has just started to fade, the hair grows again and it’s off for a date with me and eggy again.

I try to convince myself that these measures are necessary for hygiene, for beauty, for finding a Christian husband from a good family with lots of old money. Like millions of women around the world I have been told that nice girls have hair in only one place – the head.   Hair anywhere else is frowned upon as masculine and unsightly.  

I wish I was born in the days of the militant women’s lib.  The days of burn-your-bra, hit-your-man, get-a-female-lover and may-you-be-damned-if-you-shave-your-hair.

I have shaved, waxed and nicked my legs so many times that my skin has lost all feeling.  However each time I shave stronger, longer, more resilient hair grows back almost immediately.  Thanks to Wicked DNA, Hairy Bakiga and Poor Genes Company Limited, my arms have also seen their fair share of creaming and waxing and bleeding because God forbid that I should be confused with a yeti.

And of course there is the issue of the hair in My Land Down Under.  Some like it long, some like it short, others don’t like it at all.  One sexpert says it adds mystery, another says it’s dirty and another still says an errant hair on a skinned member can bring a man to his knees.

I constantly battle with conformity and in my feeble attempt at rebellion, I have refused to comb/treat/braid/weave the hair on my head.  And I WILL NOT PLUCK MY EYEBROWS no way, no here, no how. 

I WILL NOT PLUCK MY EYEBROWS because it hurts like hell.  Each hair pulled or tweezed or threaded sends a hot searing pain right through my skull. 

I WILL NOT PLUCK MY EYEBROWS because I don’t want to have a perpetual shocked, surprised or angry look that scares off potential ‘investors’. 

I WILL NOT PLUCK MY EYEBROWS because contrary to popular belief there is nothing alluring or sexy about pencil-thin line floating somewhere between your eyelids and your hairline. 

I WILL NOT PLUCK MY EYEBROWS because it is not true that what you’ve got going on above your eyes is way more important than what’s going on behind them.