For the past few months I've had the same dialogue with myself in the shower. I pick up a razor, lift my arm and think:

'Perhaps this time I won't shave my armpits.'

Then I think

'But the stubble looks all gross and wrong.'

Then I think

'But armpit hair is sexy in a devil-may-care, continental, Simone de Beauvoir kind of way. Also, the only good part of the otherwise God-awful Anatomie de l'enfer was seeing that lady naked, and she had mad pit hair. Actually, her nudity was the second good part, the first was learning that her vagina was apparently without any nerve endings at all.'

Then I think

'Stubble is gross. This will be the last time I shave. Promise.'

Three weeks ago I made good on that promise, but my armpits have failed me. It appears years and years and years of dilligent shaving and waxing have scared my pit hairs into submission. I'm a touch distressed by this. I'm an adult, post-pubescent woman. Surely I should be able to grow this hair out when I decide to. But, no. The regrowth is short, sparse and a bit gross looking, rather like a teenage boy's first go at a moustache.

Which, now that I mention it, might explain my sudden desire for flowing armpit locks. I've long commented that when men of a certain age move to Melbourne they all shave their heads and grow a beard, a trend I heartily endorse. Perhaps this is my way of trying to be in with the in crowd? I don't know.

Sigh. Maybe I'll do as the Chlo suggested and try Rogaine.


[in an entirely unrelated postscript, I would like to say thank you to a person I won't name because everyone I know reads this, the world's most one-sided version of MySpace. The thing is I get hellacious nightmares. I usually deal with these by waking up terrified, pacing the house for hours, and eventually settling on the couch to watch BBC World, bug-eyed and panicked, until the sun comes up. At the beginning of the year this happened every night for about two weeks until I cracked Broadway-style and bundled myself and an eight week old dachsund puppy onto a flight to Canberra, but that's neither here nor there. Anyway. The other night I had another epic nightmare, and soon found myself on the phone to a friend. That friend then came out to my house at a particularly stupid hour to find me puffy-eyed, trembling and swathed in layers of unwashed polar fleece. That alone is admirable, but they also had the good grace to refrain from observing that, as a voting adult I should perhaps be beyond such childish things as nightmares. To that person I am very grateful.]