I take the bus to and
from work as a matter
of choice, but even
though one of the
reasons I use public
transportation is to
avoid the aggravation
of driving during the
rush hours, there are
times when the bus can
be just as annoying.
Like last Monday, for
example. For whatever
reason, the bus was
much more crowded
than usual, and I was
forced to go toward the
back and stand up while
hanging on the pole in
the center of the aisle.
My job has me on my
feet most of the day
as it is, and while I’m
not a senior citizen
quite yet, I’m not as
young as I used to be,
so the prospect of
hanging on for dear life
while the bus jerked
and bounced around the
pot-hole riddled streets
of the city was not the
what I was looking
forward to.
And then Dawn
appeared and changed
everything.
Her name isn’t Dawn, or
at least I think the
chances are great that
it isn’t. I named her
Dawn when I glanced
over at her because she
reminded me of
someone from way
back in my high
schooldays. That Dawn
of the 60′s also had
blonde hair, like my
fellow passenger, and
hers came out of a
bottle as well, since her
eyebrows were just as
black as my old
classmate’s were.
I gave a tight-lipped
smile when “Dawn”
accidentally brushed the
top of my hand with
hers as she reached up
to grab a piece of the
metal pole when the
bus lurched forward.
Dawn returned the
smile before going back
to the magazine she
had opened and held
while trying to read. My
eyes glanced over at
the petite left hand
that was inches above
mine, and after that my
eyes traveled
downward, as they
usually do.
Dawn’s arms were
creamy white, with a
dusting of dark hair on
her forearms, and as
my eyes continued to
travel downward I was
stunned when I peeked
into the armhole of her
short sleeved blouse,
which hung open with
her arm extended
upward.
Dawn, sweet Dawn, I
thought to myself as
my eyes took in the
unexpected delight of
her exposed armpit.
Unexpected because
instead of seeing a
smooth underarm, or
perhaps a sprinkling of
stubble in that gentle
hollow for my
inspection, I saw a
luxurious tuft of rich
black hair.
Not the result of
forgetting to shave for
a few days, mind you.
Dawn’s armpit was
filled with a wild spray
of hair that went up to
the inside of her bicep
and down to where only
the darkness kept my
eyes from following.
“You’re beautiful.”
I wanted to say that,
but I didn’t. Dawn was
probably in her early
twenties, and I was old
enough to be her father
– grandfather even if
you want to get
technical, and I doubted
whether she would
appreciate a stranger
making such a
comment, no matter
how innocent I may
have meant it.
So I said nothing, and
instead kept looking
down her sleeve,
marveling at the
glorious sight of a
woman with unshorn
armpits in 2011. Forty
years ago, this would
not have been such a
rarity. Back when I was
growing up, body hair
was not considered an
appalling trait, and a
woman not removing
her body hair was not
usually thought of in a
negative way any more
than a man growing a
beard would be.
Today, things are
different. Julia Roberts
didn’t shave her
underarms for a while,
at the request of a man
she had been seeing,
and she was the
subject of ridicule in the
media after somebody
took a picture of her
waving.
Conversely, Britney
Spears, Lindsey Lohan
or another of these
instantly famous no-
talent starlets of the
21st century, gets out
of a car with her legs
spread wide open,
flashing her hairless
labia for the paparazzi
to capture forever, and
that’s okay.
I looked over at the
woman standing across
from me, intently
reading her magazine,
and tried to figure her
out, define her and give
her a life story for my
own enjoyment.
Probably a state clerical
worker, and since there
was no wedding ring on
her finger, I decided she
was single.
I decided Dawn lived
alone, in a small
apartment in an
apartment complex just
outside the city. At
about 5’5″ and maybe
120 pounds, I decided
that her trim figure
was the result of her
making a few trips to
the Y every week and
eating right, even
though that regimen
didn’t seem to have the
positive effect on me
that it did on her.
My eyes went back to
her underarm, which
was still there for my
enjoyment as the bus
made its way through
town. Thankfully
enough people got on to
keep the seats full
despite the people
getting off, and I was
also grateful that
chivalry was apparently
dead, since none of the
men on that bus
offered up their seats
for Dawn.
Was Dawn a strident
feminist, perhaps
making a statement by
not shaving her
armpits? Maybe it was
a seasonal thing, since
spring had only finally
begun to show itself,
and she happened to be
one that chose not to
bother shaving during
the colder months
when her underarms
were always covered.
I hoped that she
wasn’t lonely, and that
the reason she didn’t
wax or shave because
there was no one
around to look at her.
She had pleasant
enough features; big
brown eyes hidden
behind even bigger
glasses, those dark and
thick eyebrows, and a
chin dimple that was
adorable.
Maybe the hair was
there to please her
lover? My wife has done
it for me for many
years, so perhaps it
was her boyfriend who
asked her to stay
natural. Maybe her
girlfriend liked her hairy
like this. I cringed when
my own fantasies
began to infringe on
Dawn’s biography, but
despite my kinks I
guess I am a normal
guy at heart.
In the end I decided
that Dawn didn’t shave
her armpits because
she didn’t want to.
Take me as I am, I
pictured her saying if
somebody questioned
her about it. I didn’t ask
you to look down my
sleeve.
Was she a woman who
waxed away her pubic
hair, having the hairs
ripped out of the skin in
an effort to follow the
latest trend? That had
to be a man’s idea –
convincing people that a
trait of adulthood be
removed so that a part
of the body so
womanly natural be
turned into something
suggesting pedophilia. I
decided she did not do
that.
Just then, I happened
to glance down at
Dawn’s face again and
saw that she was not
looking at her magazine
any longer, but was
looking right at me.
Looking at me looking at
her, to be precise, and I
suspected that she
might have been aware
of where my eyes were
focused for more than
a second.
There was a time in my
younger days when I
would have cringed at
being caught like that,
or even gotten off the
bus just to avoid my
embarrassment, but
I’m older now. Perhaps
not wiser, but older.
So instead I just smiled,
and to my surprise,
Dawn smiled back. She
went back to her
magazine, and I went
back to looking under
her arm, the wild spray
of hair now sparkling
with a light dew of
perspiration.
Dawn got off the bus a
few stops later, and as
she leaned over and
pulled the cord to signal
her stop our eyes met
again.
“Thank you,” I said to
Dawn, and that thank
you was for letting me
pass the time by
enjoying your beauty,
and also for you not
ruining a most
wonderful bus ride with
a caustic remark.
Dawn said nothing, but
her tight-lipped smile
widened, exposing a
perfect set of pearly
whites, and for some
reason I thought that
she seemed to
understand why I said
that to her.
“You’re beautiful,” I
added as she moved
away from me, most
likely forever, although I
don’t know for sure if
Dawn heard me or not.
I’d like to think she did,
because I meant it. She
was beautiful.