It all started as an innocent morning — pleasant, even (dare I say, sexy). My girlfriend and I had finally mastered the art of having sex without making the headboard on my childhood bed squeak like the F train, and I woke up extra in love. I slid out of bed, into a sexy silk robe, and set off to bring her coffee like a proper wife. (Though please note, I usually wake up irrationally cranky and will not move from the confines of our expensive white comforter until my girlfriend brings me a steaming hot coffee with a dollop of whipped cream floating atop.) But this morning, I was feeling particularly domesticated and sweet.
After sipping coffee in bed, lazily browsing engagement rings, and whispering sweet nothings to one another, I had to ~use the restroom~ (we all know that’s why anyone drinks coffee, don’t lie). So I strutted to the bathroom, hoping she wouldn’t notice that I was about to blow it up. Couples who usually wait for the anonymity of their office bathrooms to take their morning shits are being f*cked by the quarantine. Anyway, that is not where this gets embarrassing. We’re taking this in a different direction, a grosser one.
What is hairier than an Italian man? An Italian grandmother.
Truer words have never been spoken. (Besides “What does a lesbian bring to a second date? A U-haul.“)
I am a very hairy girl. Though I like to think I am pretty and chic, I am hella hairy. I always carry a tweezer and razor in my Givenchy Antigona bag (OK, fine, it’s rented). I used to scurry out of bed after hook-ups to examine my chin hairs and upper lip. My girlfriend’s most touching gift to me, besides a Cartier ring in Paris, was laser hair removal on my sideburns. If I shave my legs in the morning, I have stubble by nighttime. If only I could have this problem with the hair on my head, but it hasn’t grown back since I buzzed it in order to emulate Miley Cyrus’ haircut in the mid-2000s. Now my hair resembles the mullet of Joe Exotic in “Tiger King,” and I spend the majority of my paychecks on Glam Seamless hair extensions, faux buns, ponytail extensions, and fancy hair serums.
Though I am relentlessly shameless, candid about my follicle-related challenges, and can often be found loudly recounting the tale of the time I shit my pants on a date at any given party, I can be a pearl-clutching Republican lady in front of my girlfriend. I want her to think I am a beautiful, perfect lady. She treats me like a princess, and so, I act like a proper princess. Not the girl who tweezes her chin and squeezes ingrown thigh hairs on the toilet.
But quarantine has left me no choice.
Back to the bathroom. As I was washing my hands (for 30 seconds minimum, to the tune of “The L Word” theme song), I stared into the harsh fluorescent bulb-lit mirror and noticed that I practically had a beard. I was shook. How did I miss this? But bathroom mirrors, much like car mirrors, don’t lie in the light of day. Without my codependent relationship with my threader (I miss you so much, Mandeep!) I had sprouted some pretty nasty chin hairs — so many that a tweezer just wasn’t going to cut it.
It was time to shave.
From the depths of my makeup bag, I fished out a girly pink razor that’s best for skinny white girls with peach fuzz on their legs, not swarthy Sicilians with facial hair. I tried to shave as fast as I could, to ease the trauma and pretend like I wasn’t shaving my chin right after taking a shit. The faster the deed was done, the faster I could go back to pretending I wasn’t just talking carat sizes with a chin strap. I didn’t feel like I was deserving of a ring and desperately missed the days of civilization, laser hair removal, Poo-Pourri, and threading salons.
As I was furiously shaving my five o’clock shadow, my girlfriend knocked on the door. Everything came to a screeching halt. Coronavirus and deadlines and the destruction of the world and death suddenly didn’t exist; it was just me and the razor. Me and slamming the razor back into my Chinatown Louis Vuitton makeup bag ASAP. I was so frantic, so swift in dragging the razor away from my face, I cut myself. So she walked in on me with a hunk of my skin in a razor as my hairy ass chin was dripping blood.
She respectfully completely ignored the gruesome scene she just walked in on, presumably erasing it from her memory immediately to save our sex life. Then I burst out laughing, because, helloooo? I literally just sliced my chin while shaving like a man. It’s funny. If you’re not laughing, you’re crying.
In short, there is nothing sexy and chic about quarantine. I’ve stopped brushing my teeth. The dog keeps puking on the carpet. I haven’t done my hair. My girlfriend and I later had a crying argument because she wouldn’t buy me leggings (“We’re in a crisis!” she said. But like, I still want new expensive leggings?). My tits are swollen, and I’m crampy. I’ve gone up a bra cup size and it’s no longer sexy big tits — it’s maternity big tits. My pants are too tight from all the carbs and alcohol. I desperately need a mani-pedi. I have crippling anxiety over the state of the world and am painfully worried about my loved ones and humanity as a whole. We totally just heard my dad loudly peeing from the bathroom upstairs, and I haven’t put on deodorant in weeks. I feel like I’m failing miserably at being hot.
And that’s okay. This time doesn’t have to be sexy and romantic and perfect. The world is in crisis. The bright side is our sex drives are higher than our level of gross. (bless!) Just don’t let yourself start farting in front of your partner. That’s too far.