Shaving Grace

This weekend, I left everything behind.

 My computer stuck in a drawer somewhere, I camped off in Port Alberni for three days. The clouds tenderly caressed the mountains, and all around, the trees and ocean whispered sweet nothings.

I took time to think.

Coming back on the ferry, I knew what I wanted.

I had already made a phone call to a downtown massage parlor, all female run and operated according to the website. "All female run and operated as far as I know." said the girl who answered the door. Stepped in, started filling in an application form. She filled me in on a few other details, including the fact that there was a dress code. Sexy dresses, and heavy make up on the eyes or lips - but not both.

Heels were to be worn at all times, even when no one else was around, she insisted,

her lilac acrylic nails dancing on her clipboard.

I hesitated.

Looked down at my Birkenstock sandals. My carefully pedicured feet, the same feet that carried me across 80k of trails and then some this summer... I simply couldn't put them through anything of the sort.

The thought of someone else having a say in how I chose to be sexy was uncomfortable for me.

I am coming to truly own my natural beauty. I have started growing out my hair.

Before today's interview, I thought about shaving it all off. Off of my legs, off of the tender spot under my armpits, off all the sensitive, hidden areas of me where softness grows.

Then I thought of everyone that has counted for me, either as giving, caring lovers or role models.

I decided to keep it just a bit more.

And back home, in a cheap room I've found in a city I one day hope to live in, eating canned tuna for lunch and having no idea when I'll be able to fix my cellphone again, I feel like the richest woman in the world.