The hierarchy of knickers, hairy bottoms and how ginger pubes could rejuvenate the world

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.’

Kinda...

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.’

WHAT?

‘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?  

God is in the small things...

I love trying new things. I like meeting new people (well, sometimes). I enjoy fresh experiences, tastes, feelings. It’s natural curiosity.

My life is usually so regimented, so bloody boring, it’s good to shake things up a bit from time to time.

And, really, those things and people and experiences don’t need to be huge. In London I never feel the need to go mad shopping or see big shows or eat at flashy restaurants or sip cocktails at trendy bars. I like the small details. I like noticing the little daily changes in a different place – how one day the blossom in the puddles is pink, and the next it’s white, then tinged with brown, then gone.

I like the odd meetings. The old woman who caught my eye as we passed in the street and said, ‘I’ve got a feeling...’ before calmly walking by. The man, round as a space-hopper, who grinned at me and said, ‘I had a girlfriend who was a redhead once.’ I smiled and he added, ‘Of course she just had a red head; no hair at all.’  Boom boom.  Odder, oddest of all, as I was walking into the Festival Hall to grab a drink, a voice saying, 'Jane!'  I spun round and saw this woman, all smart in suit and heels, smiling at me. It took me a moment to place her but the voice did it.  A school friend - we hadn't seen one another since we were eighteen or so. 

'You haven't changed one bit,' she said.  And I was about to go 'Nah' but then I looked at myself and thought, she's right. Same wild hair, same skinny jeans and boots and leather jacket. Same crazy head still chasing dreams. And then I thought, hmm, if she'd met me a couple of years ago, she probably wouldn't have recognised me at all. 

I like walking alone at night, late at night or way almost into morning when colours change under street lamps and sounds shift under darkness. I like walking the city by day, dancing through the crowds like an air-bender, criss-crossing through alleyways, across small patches of sudden green, past big landmarks and forgotten backwaters.  Looking down, looking up, looking close.

Small pleasures. A cup of (decaf) coffee in an Austrian coffee house; the front seat on the top of the bus; smoked tofu with almonds; buskers; girls with techni-coloured hair; memory mattresses and fresh white bedlinen; someone else’s vast record collection; pyrotechnic scented candles sparking electric blue flashes.  Peace and quiet. Sound and warmth. Signs written on the road and on boards, rather than in nature.

And some things the same. Two busy blackbirds in the garden. A Buddha that used to sit on my mother’s desk and then on my own, who now sits on Jane’s.  And, of course, my self.  Because – wherever you go, there are you.  :-)

“Nothing ever goes away until it has taught us what we need to know. If we run a hundred miles an hour to the other end of the continent in order to get away from the obstacle, we find the very same problem waiting for us when we arrive.” Pema Chodron.