When I lived in Sydney and went to work every day, I was what one might call ‘well-groomed’. (Okay, technically, I was what one might call ‘groomed to within an inch of my life’). At the time, I never gave my intensive self-cleaning-and-preening a second thought. It was as much a part of my routine as eating or sleeping.
I had a job. I worked in an office building. Every other person that worked there did exactly the same thing. Looked exactly the same way. That the duties we collectively performed would be in no way compromised by any lack of preening apparently occurred to nobody. It was just what we did.
Since my move to a small beach village on the North Coast of NSW, I have become somewhat less well groomed. Actually, if I’m honest, I have become remarkably less well groomed, and, to my eternal surprise, much happier.
When I purchased my Volkswagen Kombi Bus (aka the international hippie symbol), my (very well-groomed) sister said in horror “You’re not going to get hairy, are you ?”. Now, I wasn’t planning any such thing at the time, but I did abandon my razor in a form of silent revenge a short time later.
Having spent the previous 15 years viewing even my pale, thin body hair as the enemy, it was an amazing freedom to stop caring. (Plus, it made my husband all hot and bothered as well). I do shave occasionally now, but it’s much more likely to be for comfort than for the pursuit of some unattainable ‘beauty’ ideal.
Having done that, it didn’t take long before the rest of the symptoms of ‘preening woman syndrome’ began to abate. The relief was unimaginable. I began to re-evaluate what I like to call ‘the outside standard’. ('The outside standard' is the individuals’ self-set minimum level of grooming that they find acceptable before entering ‘the outside world’).
My outside standard has dropped from ‘freshly showered and shampooed with neatly pressed clothing, co-ordinated accessories and shoes, blow-dried hair, fragrance, matching underwear and light makeup’ to ‘oh well, at least I’m not dirty’. That’s it. As long as I’m reasonably clean and have at least two items of clothing on, I’m done.
It’s almost an addiction now. I fang around the front garden in the mornings with my ridiculously (dyed) bright red hair still all ‘bedhead’ and my face full of pillow-wrinkles. (I’ve also gone cold turkey on hairdressers, and the resulting mess manages to startle even my own mother).
My skin is far from perfect, but without make-up clogging it, it’s much cleaner and softer, and without my paranoia, my freckles are out and proud for the world to see. I have always hated the artificial, airbrushed ideal that is pressed upon women, and I’m relishing this as my (tiny) personal crusade against it.
As an added bonus, I also have a lot more time, and when I do 'make an effort' for an occasion, I feel great. In fact, this whole experience has been positive with the exception of one very minor, (yet extremely annoying in an ‘I did all that for nothing’ kind of way) detail ...
I seem to be the only one that has noticed any difference !.