Embracing the delights of newly liberated flesh

Smooth: it’s up to you, though

So to recent summertime appearances and the peculiar demands of hairlessness. How many years has it been in this neck of the woods? Multiple decades that the razor has been scraped over shin bones and in the early, unpractised days drew blood. Decades that the ankles have been accidentally nicked and the world has sometimes been stepped into with obliviously bloodied backs of feet. Ah, womanhood, and the peculiar demands it places upon our bodies. The constancy of the maintenance and the expense; all that energy expended.

But the challenges have morphed and loosened during the Covid era, with newfound freedoms from the hermetic lockdown times seeping into the real world. Bras loom accusingly in our post-lockdown existence and are reluctantly strapped into even though there’s no desire to be trussed up anymore like the proverbial turkey; the alternative is too confronting for the world to endure. Younger women, however, are begging to differ. Because not many 20-somethings have experienced the torture of the rigorously constructed underwired situation in quite the way my generation was forced to. As for body hair, it’s so much easier now. Attitudes are changing, hastened by the delights of newly liberated flesh during Covid purdah as well as a desire for authenticity among the blazing young Amazons who’ve come of age over the #MeToo years.

Watch out world, because these young women are glorious, informed, fierce and free. They prize the authentic body above all. The mantra: “You do you, girl, and don’t let anyone try to change you.” No judgment. Choice is celebrated. They’re way more wary of the policing of women’s bodies; of all the traditionally judgmental female beauty codes. They’re more questioning about who exactly is making us conform to a particular look, and why. A young female friend describes the general situation downstairs in one word: “Neatness.” For her, and for the cossie, rather than any bloke. But if things are a little ragged in that department, well, who cares. No one should, especially at the beach. “F..k your overpriced pink razors, I’m gonna be a hairy bitch now,” Florence Given blazed in her bestseller Women Don’t Owe You Pretty.

The age of the Barbie-doll bare Brazilian – and the landing strip, the Hollywood and French bikini – is finally relaxing. About time. And a new trend emerged as hot-weather freedoms roared upon us and women headed back to the waxing salons. The flaunting of natural armpits, even if they desired a tidy up down below. Emma Corrin, who played Diana so convincingly in The Crown, joined the likes of Drew Barrymore, Madonna and Gigi Hadid in recently flashing her underarm hair; Miley Cyrus’s pits are bleached and brightly coloured. Up yours to the patriarchy? Jolly good fun? Can’t be bothered? Hot new look? Whatever. They’re released from the tyranny of what other people think about them and it’s glorious.

Meanwhile, closer to home, a coveted appointment with the hairdresser was secured at lockdown’s end to wash the grey right out of my hair. The girl teen was appalled. Wanted the new mum to remain. Because, she said, it’s “authentic – and authentic is your brand”. Brand, gosh, who knew? I just wanted to look five years younger. I was discombobulated, conflicted, was not expecting this flush of guilt and confusion.

Then I made the decision. Because, well, I’ll do me, girl. Despite the little buggers wanting that authentic woman who’d been unearthed during lockdown to remain. They perceived this look as stronger, perhaps, more grounded (and less shouty and stressed because lockdown mum got more sleep). But I was now authentically desiring to have the grey washed out of my hair. So I dived in. As I returned from the hairdressers, the 10-year-old looked up at his freshly non-grey mum and exclaimed: “Why are you wearing a wig?”