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snatching the varnishes back from reluctant little hands and I
snap, ‘Thank
you
.’ In a high, tight voice, I say, ‘Stop crying,
Felicity. That’s enough of the museum for today, girls. Let’s move on to the home
bingo kit.’
    Some people go to art galleries to receive an
infusion of beauty, for other people it’s elaborate gardens, but I can’t tell you
the happy,
happy
hours I’ve had, lining my varnishes up on my bed, sometimes
colour-coding them, sometimes acting out
West Side Story
where a pink falls in love
with an orange, and on those joyous occasions when I receive a new varnish, instagramming a
David Attenborough-style documentary as it seeks to integrate into the herd.
    Yes, we take our pleasures where we can.
    First published in the
Sunday Times Style
,
April 2015.

Hairy Legs
    Bad hair days. And I’m not talking about my
head, I’m talking about my shins. Bad, oh yes, bad. How bad? Well, the fact of the hirsute
matter is that if I’d been born in a warm country, like Australia, I’d have had to
emigrate at the first opportunity. How could I survive in a country where people have to wear
shorts on a regular basis? If I couldn’t wear opaque tights, thereby covering the shame
– yes,
shame
– of my hairy legs, I wouldn’t be able to leave the
house. I am so fortunate to have been born in a cold, rainy country.
    But sometimes – like if it’s the two
days that constitute the Irish summer, or if I have the misfortune to be going away to a balmy
clime – I’m forced to engage with my hairiness.
    Which brings me to waxing. Yes. Wonderful stuff.
It hurts but it’s wonderful. Whenever I have it done, I return home with a skip in my
step, feeling light and liberated and prone to twirling in circles, a joyous look on my face.
    But a conspiracy of misinformation surrounds
waxing. Ask
anyone
how long it lasts and they’ll assure you that you’re
looking at six glorious weeks of super-smooth legs. But this is a blatant lie! It doesn’t
last six weeks. Not on me. From the moment I get it done, I watch my legs like a hawk, I
actually
patrol
them, and I’m lucky if I get a week out of it before the pesky
little blighters start poking their hairy heads up again. Sometimes I swear I can actually
see
them growing – like that cute moment when the chicken breaks his shell. And
then what can I do? I’m
semi-hairy
. Enoughhairs to have to
return to the opaque tights, but not enough hairs to make another waxing worthwhile.
    And while we’re at it, here’s another
lie: the hairs get weaker and softer the more you get waxed. On no, they don’t. Not on me.
I’ve been having it done for twenty years and my leg hairs are as hardy and lush now as
they were the first time I had it done.
    And shaving? Strictly forbidden! Shaving undoes
all the ‘good work’ of waxing, and there are beauty therapists out there
who’ll say it’s no wonder my hairs never get weaker if I alternate waxing with
shaving. But at times I’ve had no choice! I’ve wanted to be waxed – indeed
pleaded to be – but was told that my hairs were ‘too short’ and was turned
out, mildly hairy, on to the street. What could I do?
    However, even when I have a close, close shave,
my shins look like a sexy man’s jaw … sort of blue … the stubble lurking
beneath the skin just waiting for their chance. Which begins approximately half an hour later.
Nasty black little bristles start poking their pushy way out into the world, like something from
a horror film, penetrating through the tight-knit shield of my opaque tights. At times, with
lower deniers, even laddering them …
    A close friend (she agreed to speak to me only on
the condition that she not be identified) had her leg hairs lasered. ‘Lasered’ is a
nice word. It sounds modern and clean and sort of
Star Trek
ky. But what it really means
is
burnt
, and by all accounts is more excruciating than childbirth.
    My anonymous friend said she nearly puked from
the pain, despite having