PROJECT MONKEY TROUSERS: OR HOW I LEARNED TO STOP WORRYING AND LOVE MY (INNER) HAIRINESS

PROJECT MONKEY TROUSERS: OR HOW I LEARNED TO STOP WORRYING AND LOVE MY (INNER) HAIRINESS

Once upon a time, when I was a not-so-sweet sixteen year old, I decided to quit shaving. I can’t remember the exact reason - it may have had more to do with youthful contrariness than feminism – but I do remember that unlike my other acts of rebellion, such as dating an older biker whose hair made Cousin Itt from the Addams family look like an alopecia sufferer, my shaggy young forelegs were a transgression too far.

“No gorillas in the back seat!” shouted a handsome sixth-former on whom I’d had a long-standing crush, as I walked on to the school bus, his face so full of fear and confusion it was as though I’d rocked up the aisle in a pointy witch’s hat and bikini top, a giant veiny dildo strapped to my skirt, roaring I’M HERE, I’M HAIRY, I WANT TO FUCK YOU.

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