In a few weeks I’m going away for a few days and not only am I not bikini ready (I wish there was a sarcasm ) – I’m leaving the inevitable wax to the last minute, to give those little strips something to get hold of. But in the meantime I’m faintly alarmed by the profusion of sprouting hair. There’s even one lone hair that twirls in singular splendour just below my belly button, saying ‘Here I am!’ What’s that all about? Is it a nasal hair that lost its direction? Or some dark reminder of what might eventually happen if I left my bikini line to go Amazon Forest? Should I even be wearing a bikini? According to one of those surveys – you know the ones that the gleefully pounce on, women of forty six and over feel invisible. Fortunately there have been a few swift comebacks to the soul destroying idea that women of a certain age should nip off for a cauliflower perm, and a nice pair of Mary Whitehouse specs. Unfortunately Christine Odone’s smart response in The Telegraph featured – as an example of mature womanhood, Nancy Del Olio whose self confidence not only borders but crosses way way past the delusional.
I do love the way (and when I say love I mean hate) from March onwards, magazines, features and Lorraine Kelly et al start going on about being ‘bikini ready’ as though the entire female population intend to spend the next six months lolling about in a string two piece. Instead, if we’re lucky we might get a few days off to lie by the sea or the pool and all we’re ready for by then is a large gin.
I’m still bothered about that bloody single hair though. It mocks me with its single twirliness.