Read Online Most of Me by Robyn Michele Levy - Free Book Online Page B

in this shared end-of-day stillness. Neither of us can remember the last time we cuddled like this, but our bodies remember. Tentatively, our legs entwine and our arms overlap—reviving the affection I thought we’d lost, collateral damage from the Bad Old Days. Naomi yawns, pulls the covers close, and rests her head on my shoulder. We are tired, but we continue talking about brains and dogs, while invisible threads of trust begin mending our tattered love.
    AS AUTUMN PREPARES to make way for winter, the neighborhood squirrels are busy collecting nuts. At the same time, I’m frantically foraging for help and hope. So far, I have collected nine health care professionals spanning the spectrum of the medical rainbow—five doctors (a general practitioner, a neurologist, a naturopath, a homeopath, and an acupuncturist), three therapists (a physiotherapist, a massage therapist, and a psychologist), and one beautician—all of whom I consider essential for tending to my calamity, my sanity, and my vanity.
    The beautician’s name is Diane. She’s French, middle-aged, and well preserved. Her skin has a youthful glow, her hands are supple and manicured, and the pores on her face are never clogged. She radiates natural beauty, as if she doesn’t need any of the expensive anti-aging, exfoliating, beautifying creams and lotions she recommends to her clients. She owns the beauty salon down the street. If it weren’t for her, our neighborhood would be overrun by hirsute women with clogged pores, brittle nails, and unibrows. I’m one of her regulars. Every two weeks I show up for an electrolysis treatment, and each time Diane assures me that it’s working. I want to believe her.
    In the 1990s, I used to be a hirsute heroine. I credit my hairy legs, pits, and pubes for catapulting me to cult status. And not just at the local swimming pool, where I was affectionately nicknamed Chia Pet. No, my furry fame grew out all across Canada, the United States, and even Japan.
    It all started with a cheeky cartoon of a happy, horny, hairy lady I named Libby Doe, who bore a striking resemblance to me in my birthday suit. After I drew her, I composed the following poem:
    I AIN’T NO SHAVE SLAVE

    I ain’t no shave slave
no beauty queen
bikini waxes are not my scene
I ain’t no shave slave
no centerfold
for every hair on this bod
there’s a story to be told
I ain’t no shave slave
no depilatory dream
electrolysis just makes me scream
I ain’t no shave slave
no Jolen junkie
I trashed the tweezers
I’m furry and funky
I ain’t no shave slave
no Vogue vixen
it ain’t ingrown hairs that I’m itchin’
I ain’t no shave slave
no Barbie doll
if you want me, darling
you’ve got to take it all!
    On a whim, I printed greeting cards and T-shirts of Libby Doe and her poem—adding her to the other designs I was marketing through my art business. Of course, she stuck out like a sore nipple—shamelessly flaunting her tits, hairy pits, and private bits—and so I braced myself for a wide range of reactions. There were prudish pooh-poohs and testy tsk-tsks. But much to my delight, Libby Doe struck a positive chord. It seemed women from all walks of life could relate to her; they had a friend or a relative who didn’t shave, they themselves didn’t shave occasionally or at all, or they wished they had the courage to chuck the shaver and let it all hang out. And so, Libby Doe cards and T-shirts infiltrated multitudes of mailboxes, wardrobes, and, best of all, hearts. Teenagers would mail me fan letters and snapshots of them wearing the “I Ain’t No Shave Slave” shirt. Businesswomen in pantsuits would bashfully flash me their unshaven legs and buy a stack of cards for friends. Lesbians and hippies adopted Libby Doe as one of their own. Even women repulsed by real body hair found the cartoon body hair hilarious.
    And then Hollywood North came knocking.