So, I was just about to strip off when I remembered.
‘Damnit,’ I said to Cathie. ‘I’ve got my godawful scratty workout knickers on.’
Let me swiftly explain that Cathie is a…well…what is she? A healer. A witchy woman. Deeply wonderful. Ostensibly she does aromatherapy and Bowen Technique on me; unobstensibly she talks to my body and they come to some kind of agreement to which I am not party. Whatever. I go in feeling crap and come out feeling…not crap.
Anyhow. I have a hierarchy of knickers. There are everyday pants, good work horses of the arse… Then there are ‘best’ knickers, worn when they might be seen (as in when going to see one’s massage therapist, doh!). There are fancy knickers which, frankly, never get worn because they are ridiculously uncomfortable and, anyhow, there is no call. And, finally, there are workout knickers which really are beyond the pale. They’re big Bridget Jones jobs that won’t ride up or fall down while one is gyrating wildly and that don’t mind getting absolutely drenched in sweat.
‘I apologise,’ I said.
But really, come to think of it, I don’t quite understand why we keep our knickers on when we’re being massaged. They don’t bother in India and, if you ask for those little paper thong things at a German or Austrian spa they look at you funny.
‘Why? They’re not see-thru and you don’t have a hairy bottom, do you?’ said Cathie.
‘You what?’ I spluttered. ‘A hairy…?’
‘I tell you, you see all sorts in this job,’ she said. ‘Now not that many women have hairy bottoms but some really do. Not to mention those who haven’t wiped themselves properly.’
‘Oh noooo!’ I said.
‘Oh yessss,’ she said.
Now I get the reason for pants.
I lay on the couch, face down in the hole, feeling suddenly deeply self-conscious.
‘You’re okay,’ she said reassuringly. ‘No fur and no skid marks.’
I snorted into the hole.
|Actually pretty close...|
So she put on a rock CD and got to work. And we talked about London in the 80s and we talked about the music business, and we talked about Mary Magdalene being a priestess of Isis and about a guy called James who ended up in an Italian concentration camp in Roman times and how juniper oil is brilliant for rheumatism. And then, somehow, somewhen (I may have dropped off for a moment) she was talking about some guy (as in real, present day guy) who had gone grey everywhere (head, beard, chest, underarms) but had bright red pubes.
‘That reminds me of my ex brother-in-law,’ I said and she gave me a startled look.
‘Nooo,’ I laughed. ‘I just meant how hair is weird. He had dark hair, head-wise, yet when he grew a beard it was bright ginger.’
And it took me back to a conversation I’d had with a good friend some time back when she’d said about how awful it was to find your first grey pubic hair and I had been…puzzled.
|necklace: public hair and gold|
So, what kind of witchery is this? Riddle me why some of us grow different coloured hair on different bits of our bodies, and why red pubic hair is seemingly resistant to the siren call of ageing? Because it’s just the pubic stuff – red hair (the head variety) is, sadly, not exempt.
Okay, so this sounds terribly flippant but, hey, it could be important, for pube’s sake! Who knows, red bushes might just hold the key to hirsutical regeneration. J
PS - I discovered, while hunting for images for this post, that people do the most extraordinary things with pubic hair. I would also strongly recommend not Googling 'ginger pubic hair' or 'hairy bottoms'.
|Yup...you got it. People are plain weird, huh?|