Where Hot Pants zigs, I zag. Luckily, my arms are hairless. I grow minor hair under my right armpit; the left has a few strays. No bikini wax necessary because (1) by California law I am forbidden to appear in anything but a skirted bathing suit, (2) I haven’t made contact with an exterior body of water since Hot Pants and I spent a romantic week in Kauai years ago, and (3) I have become a monk, just like Lady Gaga, cutting off access to my vagina in order to protect and defend my creativity.
Nothing prepared me for the shock of losing what little Down There Hair I used to have. Among the many bizarre effects of menopause, I’m no longer bluffin’ with my muffin, since I’ve been reduced to a measly, scragly remnant of half-hearted tendrils. Sassafrass caught me coming out of the shower and started laughing at me. “You’re bald, huh?” she smirked, she of the cascading curls high and low.
I’m lucky I have a great head of hair, ’cause the rest of me is baby smooth. I know Hot Pants has no sympathy, but I am beginning to look a tad alien, save for the stealth sprouting of the occasional dark chin hair that reminds me Old Ladydom looms.