I'm thinking of moving. To France maybe. Not to see the Louvre, or to walk down the Champs d’Elysees, or to let the fine foods of Provence melt on my palate or to gaze upon the magnificence of Notre Dame. Nope, not for any of these fine reasons. I just want to live somewhere I don't have to shave my legs or my armpits, somewhere I can forgo the time-consuming rituals of womanhood in our clean-fanatic culture.
So what if the hair on my legs grows long enough to braid (French braid!), and I can use the hair under my pits as a stole around my chilled shoulders on a summer evening, I'll never have to stop the flow of a razor gash again.
No, perhaps somewhere I can forgo all of the ritual cleansings in which I currently participate. It’s off to the wilds of the mountain wilderness for me. I'll give up my daily shower for a weekly bath, I'll forget my deodorant, and let the flies follow my scent through the lavender lined lanes of spring. All the better for plant pollination. Into the trash with the razors, shampoo, hair conditioners, body lotions, sex potions...
Wait. Hmmm, sex. Now where am I going to find that in isolated hideaways? I suppose I could try to snag one of those rugged Bigfoot types, or maybe a shotgun-shouldering survivalist. At least if he decided to stay, after I remove the bear trap from his leg, I would know he loved me for who I am instead of who I can pretend to be by sprucing up all my physical attributes with artificial scents and colors.
Friday nights on the singles scene has got to be a hell of a lot more dangerous than any wild animal I face in the darkness of pine trees and the shadows of craggy, granite walls. "Can I buy you a drink?" is a line more poisonous than a rattlesnake's venom, especially when it is followed up with the ever-so-subtle grope of your ass. Like you could overlook the hairy hand playing amateur proctologist with you as the unwilling subject. I've been going to the same dive for a couple of years now, and most of the time I really love the place, but I've tested a few of my theories on the local fauna. Have you ever gone into a favorite hangout on a ragged Friday? You know, the kind of Friday that is too good for hell, it was such a bad day. You just want to have a few beers, dance a little, and enjoy the company of your friends, so you risk it, you go in looking as ragged as your day has been. No fresh make-up, no miniskirt, just a comfortable old pair of holey jeans and a baggy sweatshirt. Do any of the wildlife ask you "Can I buy you a drink?" No, you end up forking over your own money for a beer and you get the hair hand all over your ass anyway.
Yup, that's it, I'm off to the rough and ready bearded "Grizzly Adams", at least I expect his hands to be hairy, and he won't give a damn if the hair on my legs tickles him.
Copyright 6/99 Cheryl Trelease.
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