The thread of thought that led me to want to write this particular missive had its roots in a bikini wax.
And I might get onto that later (I definitely will do) but while I was ruminating on how exactly I could build a whole ass missive off the back of a bikini wax something happened and suddenly this all clicked into place.
A couple of weeks ago London decided to be hotter than the sun, seemingly out of nowhere. The weather had been talking about it all week, I was prepared for it. It coincided with Balance Festival and so I was away for the weekend and I had a nice little weekend planned for me.
I was then faced with the decision of what I was going to wear on my theatre trips (Dear Evan Hansen on Friday, Mary Poppins on Saturday). I knew it would be cooler on Saturday and so I packed a lovely little leopard print maxi dress number that had yet to have its first outing (that I ended up pairing with my denim jacket). I ummed and ahhed on the Friday night look and then settled on a neon green bodysuit and leopard print shorts combo (they are a black and white leopard print combo) because it was hot and the outfit was theatre appropriate but also I wouldn’t melt.
Now I looked like hot shit on both nights. I even put make-up on because I had the time to apply and I am basically just wearing make-up whenever I can these days after I replaced my entire make-up bag at the beginning of the year. I have to make that expense worth it.
But the difference in reaction I got from the outside world was markedly different when I was wearing shorts that just kissed the tops of my thighs (there is no actual booty on show and if you wear the shorts where they are designed to be worn then there would be a full coverage situation, but I pull everything up over my belly button) and the bodysuit that showed off my arms and shoulders than I did when I was in the fuller coverage dress.
When I say ‘from the outside’ I am talking about from men.
They seemed to respond better to all of my limbs being on full display. To the extent that I was just about to enter the safe confines of my hotel at 11pm I ended up having the life scared out of me as some man fell into step next to me and started talking to me because he was with his friend but he had to come and talk to me because I was ‘looking pretty.’ It was all fine and he was respectful enough to leave me alone when I declined his request for my phone number (he did need a reason though, which is…whatever) and I pushed my way into the hotel and the confines of my room before I switched on the TV just as Kick-Ass started.
That was the second encounter I experienced because just two minutes earlier some other man studied me quite intensely as we walked on opposite sides of a road and then eventually said ‘I like your trainers.’ Which was fine. But then we got stuck at some traffic lights near each other and he wanted details as to what my Friday night entailed and I had to dismiss him too.
On Saturday night there was nothing. Literally nothing.
And it made me think about some things.
I 100% dress for myself. I pretty much always have, and I definitely always will. If I feel good in it then I will wear it. Fuck other people’s opinions, however, that doesn’t necessarily mean that I am oblivious to the world around me.
I know without a shadow of a doubt the moment I put a pair of shorts on just stepping out of my house will invite unsolicited comments from someone who has apparently never seen a pair of legs before in their life. Heels also invite some comments, although they are sometimes less favourable because I don’t do small heels and so if I’m in them I am a solid 6ft 2” and some men find that intimidating and love letting me know their thoughts. I think I have slowly fallen out of love with skirts because they are a level of easy access that I can’t invite into my life anymore and I’ve taken to wearing shorts under dresses for similar reasons (but I will never stop wearing dresses because they are a great way to make it look like you have made an effort when generally you haven’t).
Any time I put on a certain outfit that I have felt drawn to on that day I have to steel myself for other people’s reactions because generally speaking I know how it’s going to play out (but then seriously men just like to let you know that they have power over you because I’ve been fully covered and bundled up in a winter coat, face mask on and someone still tried it…).
And there have been times when a part of me has invited that. I’ve worn outfits that I knew would fuck up my ex-boyfriend a little bit because he had a thing about my legs so the more he could see them better. I’ve worn outfits because I have the perfect Instagram caption and also maybe it’s a little bit thirst trappy (who I am trying to trap I don’t know). I’m very aware of the power and control that I do possess and I do sometimes use that to my advantage. But at the end of the day, I’m making the decisions for myself and no one else.
Which brings me onto the bikini wax.
Up until 2019 I had never paid someone to remove all (most) of the hair from that area. In the past, I have shaved just enough that it isn’t visible but the itch as it grew back was enough for me to do that as infrequently as possible. I just don’t care enough for that level of upkeep.
And I thought my lack of caring about whether it was baby smooth was steadfast because I’m the one who has to live with it and really that is all that matters. But I stumbled upon a chink in that armour when my ex made a seemingly flippant (although the more I think about the more I realise that he was a knob for saying it at all) comment about how he would go down on me but he didn’t want to get hair in his teeth. I laughed it off, because really what else are you supposed to do when you’re in his flat in Kent and can’t just leave because it’s late at night?
But not even two weeks later I was lying butterflied on a table in a pastel pink room with a merely symbolic bit of paper covering me as a woman rolled some sugar paste into a ball before smearing on my skin and flicking her wrist short and sharp along my bikini line. I convinced myself at the time that I was doing it for me, but let’s be real. I clearly wasn’t. I was doing it in a desperate attempt to get him to love me and to try and balance the giving vs receiving in our relationship (I did way more of the former and received very little in return).
It. Did. Not. Work.
Nevertheless, I butterflied my legs and let sugar remove thick dark hair convincing myself that it was what I wanted, multiple times. I was freed from having to maintain that particular illusion by lockdown and then a breakup and a realisation that I wasn’t going to be on a beach anytime soon, nor was I remotely interested in dating and so I was free to let the hair run free.
I could see without a shadow of a doubt that I did not do that for myself in the slightest, but rather made a decision about my own body based on whether or not someone else would find me attractive. And they weren’t worth that. They weren’t worth me contorting myself into their ideals of what a woman should be because well…they just weren’t. There was nothing wrong with me in the first place.
On a whim sometime in May, mostly because I needed to kill some time after I finished work but before I went to a 6pm engagement I returned to the pastel pink studio with the sugar paste and butterflied my legs. Only this time I shimmied myself into a paper thong (on a tangent I think that thongs are the worst and I cannot stand them) before I hopped onto the table because I was only feeling compelled to get my bikini line in check.
It was a 20 minute appointment, I spoke to the therapist the entire time and then it was done and I could go to my 6pm thing.
And the best part was I knew as I walked from venue to venue that I had had the hair pulled out from the root just because I wanted to.
And it felt like I reclaimed a little something that I had lost once upon a time without realising.
Jumpin’ Jumpin’
What I’m reading - I read The Intimacy Experiment - Rosie Danan over the weekend because dipping my toe further back into the romance genre was required before I pretend it doesn’t exist again next month so that I can finally finish my first draft. Then I dipped in and out of All About Love - bell hooks and read The Devil Makes Three - Tori Bovalino. The June book count is lower than last month’s which I expected. (as always these are affiliate links)
What I’m watching - I’m watching tennis. A lot of tennis. It’s pretty much the only time I watch tennis, on Monday I get to do it in person. It’s Wimbledon season. Might give the film a little re-watch if I can find it…
What I’m listening to - I’m back on the Kendrick Lamar train after his headline set at Glastonbury on Sunday. It’s been a much needed tonic to the shit show that is the world right now. Oh, and still very much blasting the Beyoncé.
Title Inspiration - Who Am I Living For? - Katy Perry. I do not listen to Katy Perry enough anymore, there are so many great songs in her back catalogue.
Who Am I Living For
Ahhhh love this and resonated so much. Thank you.
Thanks! X