It’s too late for me.

Posted: July 8, 2011 in otiose

My skin is already in the process of decay.
I don’t mind.
It never adjusted properly to growth anyway.
It seems confused now; unsure of what to do.
At least I know it’s mine.

In keeping with the rest of me.

I think about you every time I shave.
How fucked up is that?
Maybe it’s because we were young,
and I still have reservations about this new impulsive experiment.
After all, who do you know that’s naturally hairless
beyond puberty?

The implications for why this is deemed attractive still disturb me
despite what worthless shit I read about how these implications are

short sighted.

Who do you know?
How many healthy people do you know that are hairless beyond puberty?
Hairless is not sexy. Hairless is not sexy. Hairless.
You always thought it was.
You started shaving it off before it had even grown in.


I still think that’s fucked up.
I think about it every time I shave.

I put it off well into puberty.
I put it off until group showers in gym class.
I only wore constrictive sports bras until Junior year of high school…
when I’d met my quota of physical education credits and could wear nothing but my sweatshirt.

Nothing but my sweatshirt and jeans.

I hate clothes.
I like sex.
I hate advertising.

You used to think masturbation was gross, so I only talked to you about it once.
You were more comfortable talking about the easiest places to shave.
The knees, you said.

I have a razor now that I can’t even deliberately nick myself with. I can’t draw blood if I try. I can shave the most sensitive areas blind.
I hate this razor.
It was designed with what I equate to child safety features in mind.

A lot of women say they hate shaving.
I didn’t stop out of hatred or laziness.
I didn’t start now to please anybody’s sensibilities regarding femininity.

Don’t worry.
I think I’m probably still the same person I was a week ago.
I need to address some things pertaining to girliness,
but I’m sure I’ll be satisfied in a month or two.

Then the stubble.
Then, business as usual.

To crush one soul’s naive display of hope:
I’m sorry.
The flowers are garish and in my way on the bathroom sink vanity.
Thanks, but I didn’t do it for you.
I don’t respond for flowers.

Or money.

Or praise.

I didn’t expect such animated responses to spontaneous hair removal.
I think it’s fucked up.

I think it’s fucked up that I think about you when I shave.
I haven’t talked to you in years.
I can’t stand you.
It’s not something I expected; thinking about our childhood.

It took me the course of our childhood for me to realize I didn’t like you,
and it took me another decade beyond that to figure out why.

You’re a shitty person, by the way.

You needed a man to feel okay with yourself…
but you didn’t feel okay then either.
You’d tell me how you were afraid to wear a bathing suit in front of him.

“Don’t you fuck?”

Yes, but only with the lights out.

I think about how sad your life has been every time I shave.
Married. Divorced. A little girl with a stupid name.
You used to shave everyday.
Sometimes twice a day.
You said you liked to feel clean and smooth.
Yes, I hear that a lot.

About as asinine an argument as the douche on a self-cleansing area.

Not that I’m opposed to douching or even the stray enema…but not for the sake of hygiene.
Hair is not unclean.

I miss my hair.
Perhaps, I’ll have this shit worked out for myself earlier than anticipated.

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