Stories from the front lines of an unplanned pregnancy.

Monday, January 14, 2008

What the fuzz?

You know, in the early days of my pregnancy, I was just so happy about my new long, strong nails and thick, lustrous locks. But then things took a turn for the sci-fi and now, where once was smooth, innocent skin, now lies a carpet of fine, silky hair. Now this would be one thing if I was referring to somewhere that normally gets covered in hair say, around the same time you sprout a pair of tits and meet your dear auntie flo. But oh no... the gods of fertility giveth and, oh baby, do they taketh away. And in this instance they have seen it fit to take away my sublime femininity and replace it with unnecessary patches of... chest hair. Yeah, you heard me... chest hair. And belly hair. And nipple hair. And lower back hair. I'd blame them for the mustache, too, but I've been working that since back in the day and my puerto rican genes are taking all the credit for that insult to my girlishness. Seriously though, what the hell?! It all started innocently enough, too. First a couple of rogue black hairs sprouting up around my nipples-- a few yanks of the tweezer and I was good to go. But now, it seems like every time I step out of the shower I happen upon a new soft, downy spot on my body that makes me question my gender for the first time since I saw The Notebook and realized I was the only woman in that theater dry eyed. Granted, it's not the wiry sort of hair that's on the mister's chest and it certainly won't ever puff my shirt up under the collar or get tangled in my jewelry, but the fact remains that it's hair. And it's on my chest. More accurately, it's just below each of my boobs and in a faint, patternless swirl across my belly, but does it matter?

Besides the fact that it's bizarre and, in my opinion, kind of gross, my biggest problem with it is removal. At first I figured, as Priscilla Queen of the Desert as it was, I would just shave it all off. But two days later when it was growing back with a vengeance, I realized the only thing that could make me feel more like a full fledged transvestite than shaving my hairy chest in the shower, was having a stubbly chest in bed. And I'm sure the mister agrees. So, for the next three months just call me Mr. Williams (as in Robin, not those tennis playing brothers Venus & Serena... although, i bet they're some hairy bitches, too) because I'm officially giving up the good fight. That's right, kids. I'm gonna let it g(r)o(w). Okay, okay, not all of it-- pain in the ass as it's become to shave my legs, I still make the effort to deal with it at least once a week. And much as I've been feeling the urge to burn these too tiny bras recently, I'm not enough of a women's libber to give up on my underarms-- but definitely the new stuff. I figure, you can't really see it and as long as it doesn't start feeling like the mister's... what's the harm?

Pregnancy Sucks, reason. no. 52: Unwanted Body Hair
Pregnancy Rocks, reason no. 43: Not having to give a shit.

With love and tweezers,

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