In my last post, I made a statement about the issues that can arise when sex is so tethered to the body that we miss the corporeality of it all.
I was proved wrong by Instagram.
Ever since I can recall, I’ve had a hair growing from between my breasts. It is wispy and white, almost translucent. It grows longer, and once plucked it returns quicker, than any other hair on my body. The soil must be fertile there; my sweat a heady well for quenching.
I call it my Magic Hair.
Magic because of its clarity.
Magic because of its nearly 6-inch length.
Magic because of the way it flutters in the breeze of my breath.
Magic because it always comes back - resurrected from follicular death.
So I posted two photos of my magic hair on Instagram, ending the post with a question “Anyone else have any Magic Hairs?”
Eleven. Eleven people from my handful of followers all talked about their own magic hairs! From forearms and foreheads, to hands and cheeks, the magic hairs are scattered across their bodies.
I immediately imagined tying all our hairs together, a hirsute rope with body knots. But it occurred to me, each person would need two hairs a piece to be tied to one another in a braid, otherwise we are left to be tied together as pairs, or be tied together as a group, limbs radiating out from one central tangle of Magic Hairs.
The Magic Hair discussion was lively, fun, and transparent. It felt like camaraderie. Everyone describing their hairs; the texture, color, location, if they pluck or don’t pluck.
Yet it wasn’t until today, six days later, that I realized the error of my mind.
Even tho the focus of the photos are the hair, or the saliency of skin that erupts from the tug, it was still a photo full of flesh.
Hint of a tit.
Slash of a navel.
Pudge of an inner thigh.
Panties of lace.
I wasn’t grasping for any sexually-driven comments, but all of a sudden it occurred to me how there wasn’t a single one. These 11 people proved me wrong. There is a celebration of the flesh aside from sex. The weird oddities that make us human. Something we all delighted in together. No one left out. No one shamed.
(On shame: I used to tear that hair out whenever it was long enough to pluck. Everything about my body horrified me, its obesity, its color, its smattering of muddy moles. I still have issues from skin worn from weight loss, but I have less shame at least).
Just sheer joy and communion over these shared hairs - shared magic.
It is not a rarity for me to be wrong, but it is rare that I find such pleasure in it. Pleasure outside of sex, but still pleasure of flesh.
I’m impressed Instagram (of all places) was found to be a bevy of normality.