A big deadline cast a pall over my day. I felt cheated… until I remembered that May 8 always fell during Finals Week in [...]]]> Some of you are well acquainted with the Legend of Aardvark Day. Others may dimly recall that every May 8 since 1999, I’ve made an effort to be caught on film.

A big deadline cast a pall over my day. I felt cheated… until I remembered that May 8 always fell during Finals Week in college, so it’s been tense more often than not. Honestly, aren’t most holidays trouble of one kind or another?

This was the first rainy Aardvark Day in memory, forcing the festivities indoors. This year’s shots ranged from dreamy…

… to drowsy:

I’ve spared you all the yawning pictures. We’re rarely in bed before 1, but I can’t fight these eyelids any longer.

(By the way— I finally dragged my acne acne acne to a dermatologist in March. Quite the improvement, eh?)

Happy Aardvark Day, celebrants! May all your old flames be… … old? Flaming? Yep, it’s bedtime.

When we moved from New Mexico to Pennsylvania in August of 2010, my entire wardrobe fit in one suitcase and one carry-on— this included two large hats (toppy and floppy) PLUS all my linens. Impressed? I sure was.

That bite-size wardrobe expanded in the following months, mostly with what Imogen calls “it’ll do [...]]]>

When we moved from New Mexico to Pennsylvania in August of 2010, my entire wardrobe fit in one suitcase and one carry-on— this included two large hats (toppy and floppy) PLUS all my linens. Impressed? I sure was.

That bite-size wardrobe expanded in the following months, mostly with what Imogen calls “it’ll do clothes” from Goodwill. You know, clothes that are almost your style, practically a flattering color, and sorta fit.

Eventually, I reached a breaking point and hurled all my scruples about sweatshops out the window. “Self,” I said, “I’m sick and tired of your walking ragbag getup. You could get written up for this! Buy whatever you need and send me the bill.”

That weekend, I spent three hours at a shopping center, four more at the mall… and emerged completely empty-handed, with not so much as a Cinnabon wrapper to show for my efforts. All the merchandise felt so chintzy, yet cost so much! Nothing came in bearable colors!

Dismayed, I sent out the above photo and following text, written in my rusty Book of Mormon-ese:

“Yea, and it came to pass that I, Rebobohah, did gird up my loins and enter the great and spacious mall to seek work clothes, for I knew that the Lord was angered by my shabby appearance. And my soul was saddened by the abundance of sweatshop goods upon the racks, yea, and also upon the floor. Nevertheless, I did seek delightsome work clothes. And forty years did pass. And Jesus wept.”

Ever supportive, my mother replied,

“Trying on shorts at Goodwill with your sister. Baby Jesus cryin’ here, too.”

Retail therapy’s not half so fun as they make it sound.

I recently went about three months without shaving my underarms, two and a half months without shaving my legs. From October through the New Year, I grew increasingly fuzzy. The results looked something like this:

I say “something like this” [...]]]> Today, Autumn wrote about The Conundrum of Body Hair. I’m chiming in.

I recently went about three months without shaving my underarms, two and a half months without shaving my legs. From October through the New Year, I grew increasingly fuzzy. The results looked something like this:

I say “something like this” because me and my camera take worthless photographs.

Various Disjointed Thoughts:

- Can you believe how little body hair I have? Three months of unchecked hair hardly looked ‘worse’ than one month’s growth, and some women could grow that much in a week. How many of us think we’re six times hairier than we are, but never find out what we’re really dealing with? I had a similar revelation with my Diva Cup; after years of using soooo many tampons every month, I was astounded to learn that my entire period consisted of about one ounce of blood, maybe an ounce and a half.  (Now I have a copper IUD, and can lose more than half an ounce per day. Story for another time.)

- Beauty privilege is a slippery and subjective thing. But in our current culture, being naturally semi-hairless seems like a HUGE beauty privilege. This is not without drawbacks; the same genes that leave me semi-hairless decree that I will never have thick, luxurious hair. Also,while invisible forearm hair is considered a plus, having invisible eyelashes can feel like a massive ‘beauty disadvantage.’

- The first week or two without shaving will be hardest, because stubble feels nasty. Once your body hair is soft and not prickly, it seems much less worrisome.

- During these months, I continued to wear tank tops and knee-length skirts, giving locals the chance to admire my fur. No one ever commented. I rarely felt self-conscious about my armpits, but did feel very strange sporting leg hair and high heels simultaneously.

- I dream of a world where visible body hair was not considered disgusting or careless, but just one more style choice— the way we no longer think twice about women wearing skirts OR trousers, or having short hair instead of long. Every time I grow out my body hair, it is with this conscious goal in mind.

- HOWEVER! People being what they are, I’m sure that even if all women had visible body hair, some body hair would be considered cooler or sexier than others, and companies would find news ways to capitalize on hair insecurities. Can you imagine full-body Latisse lotions? A return of the merkin?

- Personally, I’m biased in favor of dark, curly body hair. Why? Who knows?

- Even if having sparse body hair is a privilege of some kind, I think thicker body hair looks better; more deliberate, more like a ‘design element’ and less like an oversight.

- Speaking of privilege, I understand that being white and fairly thin make it easier for me to play around with cosmetic taboos than it might be for someone else. This was equally true of head-shaving.

- And speaking of shaved heads, my old electric clippers are great for trimming pubic and underarm hair. For me, those clippers have been a fantastic investment.

- I quit my Body Hair Laissez Faire ways while I was totally bald; I didn’t want my toe hair to be longer than my head hair. Vain, I know. Ha!

- Have you noticed that underarm hair seems more popular than leg hair? Am I imagining this? In my case, I’m more comfortable with armpit hair because 1) even the world’s foxiest armpit is nondescript, so what can a little hair hurt? and 2) I’m not thrilled with the shape or color of my legs; maintaining a smooth texture is the only control I can exert over ‘em. Also, legs have far more acreage than underarms, and may be more strongly associated with culturally mandated sexiness and acceptability.

- In case you’re wondering, Mr. Jaunty is not a real fan of body hair. I figure he’s only allowed to veto mine if I can veto his, so we both grow and shave whatever we like.

- Years ago, I dated a guy who loved women’s body hair. He always wanted me to let mine grow, and I could never bring myself to do it.

- So far, I cannot maintain long body hair for more than a few months, because I get bored and want a change. Same thing happened with head-shaving. Sure, I tell myself “from now on, I will remain bald!” or “from now on, I only want long hair!” or “I’m liberating myself from razors!” but I’m never right for long. My crush on variety and reinvention always trump matters of consistency or practicality.

When I shaved off all my body hair at the beginning of 2012, I was surprised by two things:

1) I actually missed my armpit hair and was disappointed by how boring armpits are. I’ve since regrown and re-shaved that hair several times.

2) I was truly shocked by how icky leg stubble feels. I’ve been shaving my legs for more than ten years, how did I forget the feeling of stubble in under three months?

There! More than you ever wanted to know about my hairiness. But I still want to know about you: male or female, have you ever taken up or abandoned shaving your body hair? Why? Are your body hair choices consistent, or are you a flip-flopper like me? What’s the longest you’ve ever gone without shaving?

As was my boyfriend, Ian:

There is no moral to this story. Sometimes a person feels like baby-gazing.

Last photo of the fauxhawk before it stopped looking like a fauxhawk… plus an awkward petticoat reveal.

Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose… plus a scorpion brooch for good measure.

How short is too short? Sometimes, you don’t know [...]]]> Even when I’m not blogging, I am almost certainly wearing clothes.

Last photo of the fauxhawk before it stopped looking like a fauxhawk… plus an awkward petticoat reveal.

Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose… plus a scorpion brooch for good measure.

How short is too short? Sometimes, you don’t know until you’re out in public. To be fair, it IS labelled as a tennis skirt, and tennis skirts are practically designed for panty-flashing. Lesson learned.

However! I’ve  been deeply ashamed of my legs since the moment I reached puberty and was instantly christened “thunder thighs”, so revealing them felt strangely liberating. While I found the skirt was too short for practicality, I did NOT feel  [terribly] ashamed of the shape of my legs. That’s big progress.

Brights and darks. Boy, I’ve gotten my money’s worth out of those muted teal/dark turquoise/how-the-hell-should-I-know colored boots.  (Payless, 2009.) Here I am, braving another short, thrifted skirt:

Sorry, I lost my head. I wore this for a dinner date with Mr. Jaunty, and felt greatly overdressed. This is a very, very laid back town. Also, this dress felt scandalously short, despite being longer than the two skirts above. Tights make a big psychological difference.

NOTE TO SELF: Remember to win the lottery and buy fancy camera. Also, don’t wait until past midnight to take outfit photos. Haven’t we had this talk?

NOTE TO READERS: Not feeling moved to catalog half my closet, I’m skipping outfit sources for tonight. If you have questions about a particular garment or would like to see it in a less lousy photo, I’m happy to oblige.

THE END

You are now free to move on to other fantasies. Also, to that blogger who claimed her “schnozz” was bigger than mine— consider yourself [humbly and respectfully] schooled.

(Image source)

There are two reasons I have never hired a wardrobe consultant:

1. I never been able to afford a personal shopper, wardrobe consultant, or any fashion advice beyond hairstylists asking “Are you sure about this?”

2. If a poor, unsuspecting consultant asked me “What styles do you [...]]]>

(Image source)

There are two reasons I have never hired a wardrobe consultant:

1. I never been able to afford a personal shopper, wardrobe consultant, or any fashion advice beyond hairstylists asking “Are you sure about this?”

2. If a poor, unsuspecting consultant asked me “What styles do you avoid?” I’d be forced to answer  “I’d like to try some new looks… so long as they don’t involve silk, wool, feathers, pearls, leather, down, polka dots, tiered skirts, empire waistlines, black, white, fuschia, the Playboy logo, any logo at all, words, gold tones, short shorts, round toes, peter pan collars, push-up bras, mary jane shoes, sequins, glitter, cherries, obvious nautical motifs, anything neon, bright, or pastel, most prints, mid-calf skirts, clam-digger-type-highwater-pants, anything that wrinkles easily, or anything that hurts.” At that point, the personal shopper would either break down sobbing or leap into traffic.

When I was trying to name this blog, my best friend said “I always associate the word persnickety with you.”

Fancy that.

Lush None of Your Beeswax - On my first (and only) trip to Aspen, I paid my first (and only) visit [...]]]> Earlier this week, the writers at No More Dirty Looks reviewed five “clean” balms… all of which contained beeswax. Vegans of the world, I submit these five lip balms for your consideration:

Lush None of Your Beeswax - On my first (and only) trip to Aspen, I paid my first (and only) visit to Lush. This creamy, lemony lip balm was the one thing in Lush (or in Aspen, for that matter) I could afford. Throwing down $6.95 for a 10 gram tin sounds expensive, but it’s more than twice the product you’d get in a standard tube— and vegan lip balm is seldom cheap. Cost aside, the one I bought was so gritty that I demoted it to “cuticle balm.” 10 grams of disappointment.

(image source)

Merry Hempsters Vegan Lip Balms- A light, smooth, widely available lip balm in a variety of pleasant flavors. But boy howdy, do I hate that logo. Be aware Merry Hempsters also sells beeswax balms, so double-check the label before you buy. Sold in 4g tubes, $2.99.

(image source)

Everyday Minerals High Tea Traders – If there’s anything I like less than the Merry Hempsters logo, it might be this label’s headband-sporting pseudo-hippie riding an elephant. Does this make me a snob? At any rate, it’s a good balm— slightly creamy but still light, with a sweet, non-cloying fragrance. Since Everyday Minerals isn’t offering this now, there’s little point in discussing it. Moving on!

Hurraw! Balm – $3.79 for 4.3 grams. Outstanding flavor selection (Almond! Licorice! Root beer!), cute packaging and pocket-friendly oval tubes. These are lightweight balms, not the thick, buttery kind. Great for warm weather or  lips that aren’t chapped, but I needed something thicker mid-winter. The Black Cherry balm is tinted; I sometimes wear it as blush.

Before I ever considered veganism, my favorite lip balm was that ubiquitous Burt’s Bees, its thick, minty goodness housed in a familiar yellow tube. Once my flirtation with veganism began, I worried I’d never find a vegan lip balm that satisfying, that I’d never slather my mouth with a rich, balmy balm again.

Readers, I feared in vain. Lo!

Soothing Touch – Vegan balms with that thick, comforting texture I’d missed. They feel so good. The vegan options are Lemon Cardamom, Vanilla Chai, and Vegan Unscented. I can personally vouch for Lemon Cardamom and Vanilla Chai, both of which are excellent. I bought mine in Oregon, about $3.80 for a chubby 7 gram tube of 70% organic wonder. I can only find these by the case online, so check your hippie mart or co-op for tubes sold individually.

Currently, the Soothing Touch Lemon Cardamom is my favorite lip balm… but I’m saving all my empty tubes for future DIY endeavors.

Do you have a favorite vegan lip balm? Tried any total flops? Do tell!

(At the end of a long day, it’s nice to throw off your clothes, drop your scythe, and lounge on a mountaintop alter with your peacock. Image source.)

The very best thing about blogging is getting to know fantastic people. On November 11, 2006, I posted the following words to [...]]]>

(At the end of a long day, it’s nice to throw off your clothes, drop your scythe, and lounge on a mountaintop alter with your peacock. Image source.)

The very best thing about blogging is getting to know fantastic people. On November 11, 2006, I posted the following words to Myspace. Somehow, Jen happened upon them. We started a correspondence, and soon became NHB friends and two of the world’s most prolific email composers. Soon we branched into phone calls snail mail, too, discussing everything from children to sex to ‘what to do when you lose your religion.’

Here’s the post that introduced me to Jen. It’s not great writing, but it launched a truly great friendship:

I’ve been thinking a lot about Beauty lately. For years, if you want the truth, I seldom last an hour without stopping to ponder something vapid and pointless. I collect books about hair, makeup, clothing, charm and style… I hate to admit to it.

I crave beauty in all things. Once, as I was rambling about how pretty giraffes are, Gregory interrupted to say, “With you, everything has to be pretty.” It stung a little, but I couldn’t argue. I want beauty in everything. Friends, pets, dishes, makeup compacts, writing implements, fruits and veggies…

When people don’t find me attractive, it hurts my feelings to be written off and ignored because of my face. I hate to wonder who could learn to love me if I were prettier, more polished, more graceful. I wonder who could mistake a fancy face for a good heart.

When people DO find me attractive, it hurts my feelings to be praised and envied because of my genes. It scares me to think of who’s imagined they loved me, when really I just suited their image, their ideals. I wonder who wouldn’t want to be seen with me if I went bald, put on weight, dressed differently, etc..

Compliments don’t make me feel more secure, they make me more sure that I’ll disappoint people, that one day they’ll all look at me and say, “Yeesh, what did I see in her?!”

Occasionally, friends or strangers stop me on the street to tell me how much they admire my looks. In a way, it surprises me. I seldom feel appealing, let alone beautiful; I’m scruffy, acne-ridden, poorly dressed, and rarely make much effort to look better. I eat too much. My hair hates me. I can name at least twenty things about my face and body that shame me and make me uncomfortable in public settings.

But in a way, I’ve come to expect the praise. I’ve been getting these weird compliments for so long, I’m beginning to accept the idea that other humans see something in me, heaven knows what.

Spending my days on campus makes the problem better and worse: there are literally thousands of prettier women on campus, which keeps me grounded in reality and grateful for the friends who love my soul. But… being surrounded by thousands of pretty women all day makes me even less secure, I always want to look like them, with their sleek, shining hair, amazing bodies and glorious clothes. I feel frumpy, unkempt. Unlovable.

Once, I had a crush on a very, very striking Italian named Allessandro. He wasn’t classically handsome, but he was so striking… I was always nervous around him, I could hardly breathe. It made my heart ache to realize that he’d never even notice a clunky, messy thing like me. But maybe Allessandro felt the way I have, afraid of people only loving his face and form. Who knows? I’d have asked him, but I couldn’t breathe.

Friends have been hounding me for months to put up new Myspace pictures, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Posting pictures invites more scrutiny, more room to be hit on or written off entirely.

I wish beauty didn’t matter. I wish we didn’t spend zillions of dollars trying to change ourselves. I wish eating disorders didn’t exist, that women weren’t judged so harshly for the way they/we look.

I wish I could take each of my friends aside for ten minutes and tell them how beautiful they are to me, every little detail that makes them gorgeous. I know so many people who can’t see how priceless they are, can’t see the way they sparkle when they laugh, all their adorable expressions and mannerisms, the way their eyes light up and their cheeks flush when they’re talking passionately. I wish they could see themselves the way I see them. But then, that would be placing too much importance on beauty again. Sigh.

Blah, blah blahhh….. Please note that this isn’t a plea for flattery. I don’t want people writing to me and saying, “Guurl, dont you worry any about bein pretty, your beautful! ttyl!” The point is… … I just wish no one cared about my face or form, and that I didn’t care about theirs.

IMPORTANT EDITOR’S NOTE: The instant after I posted this blog, I got a message from a stranger. Here are his exact words: “Hi how are you doing day? Sorry to bother you but i was amazed at your beauty!!!! Would you care to chat a little bit?” His comedic timing is flawless.

(Happy January, Jen! I’d hoped to publish this on your birthday. Close enough for horseshoes?)

My hair is gone, suddenly. I’m adjusting to some changes:

1) Everyone in the world wants to to rub my head. On one hand, I love love love [...]]]> (A flashback to May 4, 2007, two days after my first ever buzz cut. Classy, Myspace-style photo was taken immediately after the haircut.)

My hair is gone, suddenly. I’m adjusting to some changes:

1) Everyone in the world wants to to rub my head. On one hand, I love love love this; I’m a touchy-feely female—but single+introverted, and therefore often craving the human touch. (Note that touch deprivation is a recognized phenomenon, common among those with herpes. It’s not just me, honest!)
On the other hand, being petted makes me feel like a dog. I halfway expect people to stratch behind my ears.
Back to the first hand, I like having people rub my head; it’s fun to see grown-ups (including some university staff and faculty members) transformed into giddy little kids, which they invariably are when they play with my hair/head.

2) None of my clothes look right with my scalp. Earrings look worse

3) Waking up looking like a different person is deeply disturbing. My short term memory is lousy, so I FORGET the baldness at least ten times a day…. I only remember when people gawk at me. Every time I walk past a mirror, I have a heart attack. When I see myself in the morning, I feel sorry for that boy in the mirror with acne and sad eyes.

4) When I’m not feeling like a sad little boy, I feel gorgeous. THIS is a huge adjustment, as I rarely even feel cute, let alone pretty. Gorgeous is more than a little out of the question.
But now I have no hair! There’s nothing to hide behind! I’m twice as naked as most naked people… and it looks nice. Even when I look like a little boy, he looks like a sweet, thoughtful boy. That’s got to be worth something.

5) Getting ready in the morning is a breeze. Priceless.

6) I spend a lot of time noticing hair, still, how much it defines a person’s image. It’s creepy that one aspect of your whole persona can say sooo much about you. I’m not sure what the suedehead look says about me yet. I’m dressing very carefully until I figure it out.

7) Interesting discovery: when I bike, the wind in my hair tickles my head. It feels craaaaazy.

I have to say… I haven’t gotten used to this yet. I spend hours a day running my hand over my head, sprinting to the nearest mirror to see if the sad boy or the model will be staring back at me, gawking at my profile pictures over and over again, trying to reconcile the smooth, rounded head in the photos with the one I live inside….

About the ducking and dodging— several times, friends have come up to give me hugs, and I don’t realize they’re coming for a hug—- I assume they’re coming to feel my head ( like everyone does), so I duck my head down. Then they don’t know what to make of it. Only minutes later will I realize what happened…