I couldn’t look away.
I was at a super-cool cafe, half-listening to my book club discuss yet another book I hadn’t read.
I was smiling, nodding, making the appropriate intellectual hope-they-don’t-realise-i’m-bluffing noises. But my attention was elsewhere.
I was deep in the armpits of a woman.
She was walking idly past, when she stopped to fix her hair. Upon lifting her arms, she flashed a patch of hair from her pits so long and dark that I considered offering her my tangle-teaser.
It was like a Kardashian had nestled up in there. My eyes trailed it like a dog would follow a schmacko.
And just as she disappeared from sight, I spotted another. A magnificent hairy pit-stop on a woman to my right.
The armpit beard has arrived. No longer does the hipster beard dominate in my part of Melbourne - it's women who are shunning the razors too.
And I know that I should be celebrating it. I know that it's a statement in defiance of beauty conventions. It's FRENCH for God's sake, and everything French is luscious and covert and sexy and dangerous and feminine.
So why, then, do I think 'sacre bleu'?
When I see it on the red carpet, I say "HOORAY! GIRL POWER!"
But when I see it in real life I think 'What died under there?'
