I’ve known people
to blatantly balk at my underarm hair.
In fact, they’d feel
quite queasy,
find it
out-and-out odious
to have gleaned a glimpse
I wonder how we had come to be like this
so out of love with nature
so niggled by naturalness
so loathing of Lucinda’s long-haired legs
so baffled by Belinda’s burgeoning bristle
after that, I realised I too was
unaccountably uncomfortable
when my arms were lightly lifted
like swans necks
Then of course, I’d be overcome
by the urge to have
underarms like newborn cuckoos
those brazenly bald little baby birds
as little-big boys bow down to a fully waxed female
all skimpy and oiled, as slick as a seal
I think I must reassess my appeal
Oh, but that’ll never do!
The time it takes to strip the skin
to highlight the hair, to neaten the nails
the time it takes to buff the body
to dodge
the derrières
determined
decline
is time less spent
in intelligence
so you see, rebellion’s set in
the razors been relegated
to the shadows of the shelf
to the corner of the cabinet
to the bottom of the bathroom bin
the unaffected new me, the wild woman of wonga has
taken over the bikini line
and the whole length of the legs
I struggle, now, with skirts
any shorter than
ankle length
well, girly clothes do no justice to natural Woman
as hairy girls and silk blouses do not mix, so I’m
selling up and shipping out
to a place where I can beat my drum and
bellydance bare-assed beneath
voluminous veils of un-vanity
where I can pee standing
if I so choose
yes, as well I might
urinate in the upright
and in broad daylight
if I so choose.
And, to answer a question
I’ll quaintly quantify that
I’ve no beef
with men who don’t shave
Who wantonly wangle out of
waxing the wayward on winky and
deleteriously depilating their downy derrieres
maybe instead I’ll raise them a salute
while welcoming all to my haven
for the happily hirsute
Yvette Cazalet 