The Job Hunt.

You know when you feel like you could scream in the middle of a crowded room and no one would even blink? That’s what the graduate job hunt feels like.

As all the economists at university applied for grad schemes and the rest of my friends were flaunting their father’s abilities in finding them their dream job, I was chilling at the beach wondering what all the fuss was about. As an English student, I didn’t think there was much I could do. Turns out, there really isn’t. Except for undertake ridiculous work experience placements without expenses even being paid for and applying endlessly on journalistic jobsites for vacancies WAY above my station because let’s face it, when it comes to publishing, someone has to have a baby, or die, before anyone else even gets an interview.

So since May last year, this is what I’ve been doing. And now I’ve pretty much hit rock bottom. After maxing out my hefty overdraft while completing placements at various magazines, I am left with a pretty nice looking CV, but still no job and no money. And there is nothing more depressing than knowing you’ve spent £10,000 studying to no gain. In fact yes there is. There’s being interviewed for a job that you really don’t want, and have only applied for because you are living below the breadline, only for them to tell you that your heart’s not in making moulds of children’s hands and feet for their middle class parents. NO IT BLOODY ISN’T!!! But I’ll do it. And I’ll do it well.

Just the other day I walked into a salon on the Fulham Road where I had applied (and been rejected for) a receptionist role. The woman who had pipped me to the poorly-paid post could barely string a sentence together let alone answer my mum’s questions about facial appointments and gift cards. How on earth is this fair?! I was rejected due to “a lack of commitment to the job” and being “overqualified”. What does that even mean and how would you even know if you don’t give me the chance?!

Throw a girl a bone.

Don’t get me wrong, I know I’m not alone in sitting behind a computer screen with a pretty sick degree, some fantastic work experience and a cup of tea, but it doesn’t mean I can’t be a little frustrated.

So employers, if you’re reading this, I have worked in some of the worst conditions throughout my life, stuck with them AND did a good job, have come across the most challenging of bosses and have even worked for free with very little reward. So please, find it in your hearts to employ me. And pay me. You will not regret it. I’ll even stop talking about sex on here if it makes you feel uncomfortable. Plus, I’m a right laugh at office parties.

The cherry on top of the job hunt cake? Putting on five stone as you spend endless hours in front of Gorkana and Gumtree with slice after slice of peanut butter on toast.

Excuse me while I roll to my interview at McDonald’s…

Pah! I should be so lucky.

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The Hair.

When Julia Roberts raised her furry underarm at that premiere back in the late nineties, the world gasped. A clever PR stunt? Or a wave to feminism? Either way, she knew what sort of stir she was going to cause when she forgot to shave.

As the two-piece was adorned in the 1950s, women started to minimise the hair they had down there. In the 80s, even less was even more with the throng of the thong. Nowadays, I’m not quite sure what men expect to see beyond the bikini. And to be honest, I couldn’t care less. Not because I am an ardent feminist (which I am) or because I presume men are judgmental pigs (which I don’t), it’s because I have faith in mankind and believe that if a girl decides to go Kate Bush for a while, he will embrace “it” with both hands. Much like if she decides to go as bald as a sphinx, I’d expect him to act accordingly… well, sort of.

It does bewilder me though, how much attention we pay to that small patch of hair between our legs. I, for instance, haven’t cut the hair (on my head) for over a year now and people could not care any less. Had I not paid attention to that hairea below the belt, there would be a completely different reaction altogether. But why do we put so much emphasis on it? As if growing up wasn’t hard enough having to deal with the seemingly overnight arrival of tits and the realisation that you will indeed bleed every month, we’re still having to deal with sprouting hairs and people poking fun at pubes well into adulthood, which is less than ideal.

Yes, my group of friends are admittedly ‘into’ the whole hair removal thing. We religiously shave under our arms, refine our upper lips, trim our bikini line and enjoy being silky smooth. But had we not put pressure on ourselves and each other to do so, would we be more comfortable with going au naturel? Probably. Although I’d be lying if I said that we do it solely for our own benefit. Yes, I would probably wax lyrical anyway but when I’m single; I guess I am a little slack on the hair front. And can guarantee that most of you are too.

But despite my desire to believe that men generally don’t mind what a girl does with her nethers, apparently I’m disappointingly incorrect. And if this is the case boys, the next time you’re annoyed that a girl doesn’t look quite like they do in those movies you watch, I’d just like to let you into a little secret: a good (full) wax costs at least 25 quid, which buys you around five pints of lager in London. Would you sacrifice beer for hair removal?

… I think not. So forgive us if we’d rather engage in stimulating conversation at the pub than have our hairs ripped out of their follicles and pay for the pleasure.

I’m heading over to W1 at the weekend to schmooze around the great wall of vagina. Yes boys, it does exist. I’ll let you know how inadequate/normal I feel at the end of it.

It’ll be hair raising to say the least.

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