I Wonder, Down Under: An Excursus on Prince (His Purpleness) and (My) Body Hair
As you likely surmised by the title and featured image, this is about Prince’s song “Kiss”, zero kangaroos, and the relationship I have with my body hair.
rarely often do, I found myself in the gym recently. Those of you on WhatsApp already know my gym schedule: erratic but well-intentioned.
While things are getting better, I find my standards are shifting a bit. To whit: last October’s Holy Crap, Do I Weight THAT? is now my goal-weight for the month.
One thing hasn’t changed, at some point someone at the Y will realize I either have the gestation period of an African elephant (645 days), or I need to lose a few.
What I love about the gym is that there’s always music on. What I don’t love are the days they play anything from this millennium. But yesterday was great. I don’t love “Kiss” by Prince and the Revolution, I LOVE it. I love everything about the song. Not sure exactly why (although it’s true, I can sing it, to the annoyance of dogs) but whenever I hear it, I feel happy. I usually laugh out loud.
All this got me to thinking. Does The Purple One manscape?
I don’t. For two reasons:
- I’m not a dude. Manscaping is impossible. Perhaps when we co-opt the “personscape” I may be able, also, to deny this activity.
- Seriously? You’ve seen me. I can barely comb my hair, much less depilate my Wonder Down Under.
Not that I comb my lady business. Hope the above didn’t suggest I might. A bit of faulty parallel structure there.
It’s just that grooming on all levels defies me. I’m lucky to have matching socks.
Sadly, I couldn’t find an official copy of the Kiss video on the usual safe sources (frowny frowny frowny face). But I did find this:
So there I am, smiling, happy to do my lateral pull-downs whilst thinking of Prince and then naturally Tom Jone’s variation on the tune, when I realize someone is frowny-facing my pits. I do not personscape (see note above) and I was wearing, essentially, a basketball shirt and boxing shorts. My pits doth be showing is what I’m saying. So I make a quick connection: hair, Prince, my happy place, self-esteem, spandex; and I wonder as anyone would under such duress:
Does The Purple One ‘scape (let’s just say ‘scape)?
I did what I usually do when faced with such an imponderable, I WhatsApp Paula who invariably tolerates my insanity and — chocolate be praised —Paula’s all over it (see screen right).
She’s correct as usual, King Friday, of course Prince does. He is His Purpleness. He would wax, shave, thread, sugar, pluck, or NOT. He is who He is. The man who can kick arse in basketball, sing a tuneful ditty, woo Sheila E. and bravely wave more-than-a-man-camel-toe at all and sundry in a concert (and we are grateful).
The basketball? It’s true. I saw it on The Chappelle Show.
A quick survey of my friends assured me that Prince very likely does remove all or part of his nether hair. My sister Caroline suggested a soul-patch. Paula: threading. Boo Boo Kitty F. went creative on me:
Of course he would have scifi_esque nursely outfitted women tend to his ‘scaping. He’s His Purpleness.
But this does nothing for me, left sitting in the gym on the lateral pull-down apparatus wondering why it’s not ok for me to not shave, wax, depilate or otherwise wrench from their mooring my pit hairs (never mind my womanly growth).
As if I didn’t have enough to deal with: being 30 pounds overweight in a gym NOT wearing spandex or yoga pants.
THEN to add insult to injury: I forgot my t-shirt.
Hold up: I have a shirt on. I mean my sit-in-the-hot-tub t-shirt. The one that hides my extruding pulchritude but more importantly:
my vile womanly growth.
I can handle being squishy, but do I want anyone to know the horror of horrors? Sin of sins? I don’t pluck, wax, shave anything. At all. Strong men blanch to see womenly hair and frankly, so do strong women. I don’t even look at my own undercarriage, so why I would inflict any part of it on another is beyond me. It’s a question of modesty. Of course, that can be debated. BUT insofar as I’m neurotic about my pits when there are several men about me, similarly garbed (basketball T’s, boxing shorts… pits unshaved)…….
……Why should I be shamed?
I met the gaze only for a moment, did a beautiful armpit sniff à la Kevin Kline in A Fish Called Wanda, and moved on (you may want to skip to 1:37+ for the armpit — better yet, see the whole film).
Not really. I ignored. Then looked forward to the hot tub, which was shortly to be self-denied to me.
I went, very quickly, from a happy place to a grumpy place. All because I don’t shave my pits or my “edges.”
Then I went to a happy place when I got home because:
a) I was thinking about Prince and had “Kiss” as my earworm for the evening.
b) I worked out; and some grumpy old fart looked at my pits and scowled and dash-it-all, that’s a good day when I can FU a crotchety (pun intended) coot.
c) I managed to meet my feminist praxis and come out fighting (I had the shorts for it).
Dadgum right I shave or I don’t. Prince does as he pleases. I sincerely doubt he frets if he’s ‘scaped. Is that a luxury only the rich and talented have rights to?
While I may not want to flaunt my lady extrusion, frankly no one else really flaunts theirs either. But the pits? Those are fair game.
Let’s leave this to the immortal words of His Purpleness:
Women not girls rule my world
My hair. It’s there. Get used to it.