Smooth * Benefit auction * FAQ * Write for
* Editorial policy
Not Johnny or Jane
I'm a hairy monster

By Marjaneh Joon
June 26, 2002
The Iranian

Since the beginnings of my puberty, many a moon ago, I discovered to my horror of horrors that I was hairy.

It all started with strange black lines on my stomach, stretching over my bikini which I could not fathom. So, I ignored those lines only to discover that they would not go away, but seemed to be breeding all over my body.

One day, I had had enough and borrowed a razor from the bathroom and stretched all over to shave those things away. Ever since, I am quite capable of getting into any yoga position without a struggle. Well, that's a sort of perverse positive thinking for you.

No amount of speeches and lectures could deter me from feeling seriously ugly and developing a pre-neaderthal complex: I could identify with Tarzan, but not with Johnny Weissmueller nor Jane, but with Tarzan's friend Chita! Alas, I never recalled an episode of Tarzan getting too friendly with Chita!

I couldn't bear people kissing on screen, or men gently carressing their lover's chin. By this time, you see, I had also grown a beard!

I will never forget my first initiation into depilation in Tehran. I was ushered into a tiny room, separated by a dodgy, dust-ridden curtain, by a girl who just left me on a chair naval-watching for ages. Strange sounds like that of ripping Piff-Paff bottles apart, kept ringing in my ears, until I knew better. Two women came in. Both in complete silence, but all scary smiles.

Each one took one of my legs into her hands and to this day I have no idea how they did it, but they attacked my oscillating legs with mushy, sticky stuff and kept pulling the glutinous concoction off my legs again. Before I even had time to utter a cry of severe pain, they attacked my arms and face. And that was it. I was almost normal, after only 15 minutes without a straight jacket.

Problem. Had to wait a month each time for the hairs to grow back again , before I was even allowed to contemplate the unpleasantness of the last experience of two women fiddling around with my body. And then there were the "matalak":

"To rish daari? Paahaato negaa, cheraa khodeto tamiz nemikoni?"

"Vaa! Haalaa ke moomak endaakhti, moohaato boro salmooni boros kon. In chiye rooye saret?! To aabroohaato bar nemidaari?"

I was thirteen for goodness's sake! And as a consequence tried to sleep with curlers! Luckily, after that I was shipped off and encarcerated in an all-girls English boarding school, where I could only understand people's looks, not the language, and where it was too cold to gallop on a horse in a bikini without a saddle along the beach.

But then when I was allowed loose into the big wild world, it all started again: I discovered men and I don't think; they appreciated the subtlety of my beauty, just waiting to come out from underneath my chimpazee out fit. I liked them, though!

Doctor after doctor, ranging from the French man who prescribed cortesan which made me balloon into a 74-kilo, hairy monster; clevercloggs Harley Street man who charged 40 pounds for his wisdom: "It's a race thing. Get on with your studies."

There was also the electrolosis torture maniac with cartoon-like dollar signs ticking away in her eyes and with a fat needle to boot; (I won't even delve into the realms of scars from "band endaakhtan" which frustrated, opportunistic relatives were relishing as revenge ); and the pill in various forms. This way I was able to have sex without getting pregnant.

Years of psycho-self-headbutting followed. I even managed to convince someone to marry me, but spent most of my time worrying about my 5 o'clock shadow appearing before my husband's and spending quality moments with razors and wax.

And do you remember the vibrating-without-joy Epilady? For a while this gadget was saving me time and money. Previously, I was forced to travel with a pan full of wax and sometimes even an electric stove which hotel manager's didn't quite appreciate. But that Epilady thing kept breaking down in between my Braun all purpose-brushing hairdryer.

So involved with hair, I went to see the musical by the same name several times! I mean, they'd sent people to the moon and back, but no-one could do anything about these tiny, annoying black things growing on my body! (Don't worry, I also tried "boor kardan" to set the prickly things into politically-correct confusion).

Until, one day, there came the lazer. Yes, there is light at the end of this tunnel. I worked out the financial implications of yet another 50 years of waxing etc, and decided to forget about my mortgage and get it all removed, PERMANENTLY! Phew.

I am so attractive now, that like a cashmere jumper I have problems keeping the moths off me and if I continue talking like this, I might actually believe what I am saying! Vali momkene dahanam moo dar biaare!

Comment for The Iranian letters section
Comment for Marjaneh Joon


God's way of preventing Iranian women from ruling the earth
By Niki Tehranchi

Eat, sleep, nose job
Iran could hold the world record in plastic surgery
By Najmeh Fakhraie

Ali's nose job
His nose defied all laws of physics
By Siamack Salri

Blind date
With an Iranian feminist
By Siamack Salri

Persian Male Syndrome
By Siamack Salri


* Recent

* Covers

* Writers

* Arts & lit

* Opinion

* All sections

Book of the day

Shamloo's complete works (2 volumes)

Copyright © All Rights Reserved. Legal Terms for more information contact:
Web design by Bcubed
Internet server Global Publishing Group