the fabulous life of a queer femme in action
Ten years ago I was still convinced that one of the most important weapons in our feminist struggle was the open and public display of (female*) body hair. I saw women who shaved their legs and armpits as traitors and spent more time on fighting for the right to wear our self-grown furs than for example on questioning my own privileges and whiteness. Another important aspect of female fur was that it represented my lesbian identity. Women who shaved only did it for heterosexual, patriarchal reasons, and if I fancied a chick and then saw her shiny legs, our affair was over before it had even begun. And don’t even get me started on my reactions to a hairless cunt … For me, that really displayed a victim of sexual oppression. So what has changed in the evolution of Denice? I still love hair. Just not my own. My body hair has this strange Scandinavian colour of dishwater/gold, and there are no cool curls in my armpits (only straight thing about me; the hair there). And I’m a lazy fuck. I have a lot of leg, and shaving takes an hour. So I usually just put on an extra pair of nylons to cover up the forest. When I realized that I needed a triple pair of pantyhose to not look like my legs were Italian marble pillars, I decided to try out a waxing studio. Quick, painful, and I only needed to lie there, babbling about my life in between screams. Needless to say, the place was an orgy of heteronormative clichées, and the guilt ridden, traitor-like shame that I already felt on the way there just exploded full blast when I stepped into this palace of peach Barbie. As you all know I have always put a lot of pride in „coming out“ everywhere and at all times to make my own contribution to queer visibility, and this place screamed to be educated by Moi. But when my very tough, sadistic, ghetto-chic 21-year old hair-removing girl was smearing hot wax on my vagina while asking about my love life, I realized that this is really not one of the moments where you talk about being a passionate muff-muncher. We shared a moment, though, when she tried to convince me to rip out my golden moustache, and I explained to her that me and my feminist gang love our facial hair. Because we do, right?
Denice did not only get a „Brazilian Triangle“. She also waxed her ass. And she is not afraid to admit that she will do it again … just a tiny bit.