The Annual Medieval Hair Fair

The Annual Medieval Hair Fair

This last weekend I attended, as is my wont to do each year, our local Medieval Fare here in Norman, Oklahoma, the lovely city where I reside. I gotta' tell you. I've never seen so much body hair in my life. Everywhere I looked there was hair; facial hair, chest hair, arm hair, underarm hair, in all its natural and sweaty glory – and the men were even worse!
I'm only half kidding, here.
Now, if you are a regular reader of my column you may already know this, but I like a good, strong, hairy woman, key word – Woman! Yes, when it comes to body hair, there is a limit. I'm not saying that I don't, now and then, enjoy the odd – and I do mean odd – how shall I say ... unique, different, admixture of a kind of a genetic Waldorf salad in the double X chromosome mixing bowl of the species, a bit of a DNA potpourri of creation, in short, one of those not your run-of-the-mill women that nature sometimes kicks out when it's really sick and unable to get out of bed. I do, I'm down for that, no doubt about it. Those who know me, know I'm just a bit of a sick-o with such things.
But as I said, there is a limit. When you see a set of furry legs sticking out from under a kilt, you don't usually expect them to be carrying a set of curvy hips and an overflowing bosom. But that's just what you might get at one of these annual festivals of wizards, wenches, and knight-errants. As I walked amongst the peasantry observing these fuzzy females, I half expected a dorky pseudo-scientist to follow them around taking plaster casts of their footprints ... "At last, finally, we have proof!"
With the average time it takes to grow such a fleece covering of the human adult female, it's clear that these ladies obviously don't reserve this little 'authenticism' for this three-day event alone. They have to go for quite some time without a razor to achieve their wooly and bristly results, so I suspect that it's less an isolated accoutrement than an adopted way of life.
Scary.
The real problem is, a lot of them are so damned pretty. I mean, just think of it. Here I am, a good Christian pervert, trying to maintain a solid grip on my libido and all of a sudden some bronze-skinned beauty ambles by and adjusts the wreath in her long, dark flowing ringlets, and I'm treated to a vision of voluptuous and lovely flesh with thick patches of hair clad armpits (it makes my mouth water just thinking about it). As my eyes make their way down her full, hourglass figured body, I see little wisps of tiny curls on her exposed, smooth rounded belly, and I'm coming close to losing all sense of propriety. But, then, just in the nick of time, I peer lower and spy her wonderfully contoured calves, and there it is, the one thing that saves me from a free ride in a squad car to the mug-shot Marriott. Don't these carpeted concupiscent cuties know that women should not have hair on their claves?
Thank God they don't! Otherwise, I might have been writing this from cell-block C.
So, a friendly warning for those of you out there who do not have my particular fetish: If you venture out to one of the yearly regional gatherings of mildly disturbing theatrcal mono-browed people decked out in clanking stage armour, black hooded robes, obese knaves in tents offering sheet metal swords and shields, leather wrist cuffs, and lace-up velvet bodices with enhancement capabilities, be prepared. The women don't shave. At least enough of them to warrant mention don't, and it can be a little upsetting if you're not prepared for it. But don't worry. As long as you have plenty of Dramamine within quick reach, you should be okay. You may have to give an impromptu anthropological studies lesson to the kids, but hey, they have to learn sometime.

Keck

Tuesday, April 7, 2009