Seanne N. Murray
Candy Colored Armpits, An Ephemeral Showing of Defiance
You’ve seen it, the carnival colored rainbow glow, the pillowy soft angel fur, the OMG I’m not talking about cotton candy, but armpit hair that seems to be everywhere we look! What the hell is going on, Miley? Have we lost are minds? Why are we discussing, let alone looking at armpit hair (it’s truly gross) at all? The thought of it in Baskin Robbins sherbet colors makes me think of licking it which makes me throw up in my mouth a little. Apparently, the color coating has moved its way downtown as well, magnetizing vijajays everywhere. Is glow in the dark an option? Maybe it will help men find what they’re looking for or better yet help them find what we’ve been telling them about all along. Can we add the “easy” Staples button in there to make sure the right spot isn’t unreachable in that fairy tale forest? Perhaps, they’ll push it and get directions. At least that would be functional. They say this multi-colored private parted hair is the new tattoo, the markings of generational folly. The only difference is, however, that the dyed trend is wholly temporary. While the color itself may be permanent, the hair never is, easily cut or waxed or Naired (do people still use that stuff?). Does this colorful trend actually indicate an inability or lack of desire to commit? Is it a way of faux liberating that’s actually just a fling, an affront to society that, unlike our Facebook and Instagram photos, will never be permanent? Is it more like living together or a commitment ceremony rather than a marriage contract? I mean we can ALL get married now, but who really wants to? I admit I toy with the idea of marrying my best friend because I think that would be beyond cool and probably the best marriage I could have in a totally platonic way, but back to neon streaks of glory. Tattoos go way, way back to native lands where markings of cultural and life experience had real significance. They had meaning to those who bled for them and to those who observed them. Today, tattoos are common, often fun body art earned on a late night bender. I got my first one, fully sober, in Philadelphia, a new lawyer, wearing a dress I would no longer be caught dead in (one only a mom could love). I spread my thighs wide and listened to an ex-con tell me his story of baseball bat abuse while he pricked my inner thigh, a ripe red strawberry developing before my eyes. That was my cherry, so to speak, popped and ready for more. I don’t usually share the significance of that one, enjoying the stutter when people see or know about it and the ideas that float off their smiling and desiring lips. Those that followed were more present, unhidden and each one stronger than the next as my own strength grew. This whole underarm color wheel thing actually kinda makes me sad. I mean, what message does it really send, this ephemeral showing of defiance? Where tattoos make a statement and the music of each generation makes proclamations that require acknowledgement, where do daisy colored pubes fit in? I guess we could argue some kind of feminist ploy, but I’m not buying it and I’m mos def not buying prism tint for my lady parts. So, I’m gonna chalk it up (weren’t we putting that in our hair for awhile too) to a phase and let bygones (sooner rather than later, I hope) be bygones. Unless it’s some undercover protest against the Trumpster’s insane presidential campaign, I’m already over it.
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