Definition
1 : hairy
2 : covered with coarse stiff hairs
Hirsute has nearly the same spelling and exactly the same meaning as its Latin parent, hirsutus. The word isn't quite one of a kind, though—it has four close relatives: hirsutism and hirsuties, synonymous nouns naming a medical condition involving excessive hair growth; hirsutal, an adjective meaning "of or relating to hair"; and hirsutulous, a mostly botanical term meaning "slightly hairy" (as in "hirsutulous stems"). The Latin hirsutus is also an etymological cousin to horrēre, meaning "to bristle." Horrēre gave rise to Latin horrōr-, horror, which has the various meanings of "standing stiffly," "bristling," "shivering," "dread," "consternation," and is the source, via Anglo-French, of our word horror. The word horripilation—a fancy word for goose bumps—is also a hirsute relation; its Latin source, horripilāre, means "to shudder," and was formed from horrēre and pilus ("hair").
I look at the short bristly hairs festooning my bathtub, the sink, the loo and just my bathroom and general and tried to suppress the nearly overwhelming urge to cry.
I almost succeeded.
I chucked my most recent, now dull, pink plastic razor blade onto the pile of previous discards on the bathroom floor. I stared at my still hairy legs, shaving foam still clinging to the delicate angles of my ankle bones.
This could not be happening.
Yes, generally I was grateful to the far, far, distant ancestor who had had the good sense to marry a werewolf. The blood was so faint these days, that there was no risk of anyone going full wolf. In fact, the descendants simply enjoyed slightly accelerated healing, a good sens of balance and slightly above average sense of smell.
The only real downside was the propensity to be a bit naturally hairy, which only got worse when the full moon was near. A lot worse. A lot lot worse.
Like six packs of disposable razors later and your legs were still covered with thick, lush hair.
I ripped open packet number seven. God damn it.
I would like to point out that, usually, my legs being hairy did not bother me. Around full moon time I just switched to jeans or long skirts and let the hair grow as much as it wanted. And if a partner found themselves commenting on the rich follicle forest flourishing on my legs, well, they knew where the door was.
Plus it was a well received extra insulating layer in the cold winter months.
But it was not winter now. Nor was it the usual kind of situation where I could cover up my legs.No, this was a once in a lifetime, dream come true, lottery winning kind of miracle occasion and my damn legs would not stop being hairy.
I had managed to wrangle an invitation to the Literary Awards Ceremony. Which, ok, might not be of much interest to some but for me, it was better than the Oscars.
And I was going. I was going to see some of my most beloved idols, up close and in person. I had been on an insane fitness regime and diet for the past two months. I'd been to the hairdresser to get my hair especially cut and styled. I'd bought new make up and taught myself (via YouTube) how to use the damn stuff. I'd been wearing my new shoes round the house for a month to break them in. I'd bought a fabulous dress with my I just about had.
I had been so excited my friends had gone past the stage of mocking me and were now just bewildered at how much I had invested for a party about books. I didn't care.
And now my legs were stubbornly still hairy.
Deep down, I knew that no one at the party would care. Writers tend to be an eclectic lot at best and I was possibly the only person putting this much effort in - including the ones that were actually receiving the awards. If one of them turned up in pajamas I wouldn't even bat an eye.
But I was meeting my heroes. I wanted to look my best.
I felt my eyes welling with tears again. I held them back in, not wanting to test exactly how waterproof my mascara was.
I shook the can of shaving foam but it was already out. Fine. I soaped up my legs and prepared to try again. I swear I could actually feel the damn hairs growing.
My skin looked red and sore from eh constant shaving. Why oh why did the event have to be on a full moon night?
"Um, um, babe?" An anxious voice called from outside the bathroom door.
"What?" I snarled back, stressed beyond my limits.
"Um, um, I know you had your heart set on your dress, and you do look great in it!" The voice hastily added, "but, um, but I don't think you're doing yourself any good trying to keep shaving it off. I mean" He stuck his head in the door, "It looks like a hairball vomited clones of itself in here."
"Your point?" I said icily.
"Well, you know I think you look great if your legs are smooth or hairy, but if it's really making you feel uncomfortable, maybe should wear something else?"
"And what other options do you think I could possibly have, with only two hours to go before it starts?" I tried my best not to shriek at him but it made my voice came out in a low, venomous hiss. He visibly winced.
"Well, what about what you wore to my cousin's wedding?"
"What I wore?" I said, my mind temporarily blanking out. Only hair remained at the centre of my attention at this point.
"Yeah, you know, this." He said and held out the outfit on its hanger. It was still in the dry cleaning bag from when I'd brought it back from the cleaners and hung it straight in the wardrobe. It was pristine.
It also suddenly felt like angels and golden sunshine from on high were singing hallelujahs.
"That's perfect." I breathed out. "Thank you sweetheart."
He beamed at me and then awkwardly shuffled his feet. "You're welcome." He said bashfully. "I just don't like to see you cutting yourself up like this. Especially when you normally love your hair."
I threw up arms around him. "Well, every girl has a right to go crazy sometimes - and it is the full moon. But thanks babe."
I absolutely killed it later, in my glam, fitted tuxedo. I even managed to wear my shoes.
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