I have hair on my legs.
Also on: my arms, stomach, and lady bits. That’s right, I am covered in hair! HAIR, I SAY! This is, obviously, not acceptable. Women are delicate, nice-smelling, and totally bald everywhere except on their heads, where they have lush, flowing Disney princess locks that sway majestically in the breeze and never get frizzy. Everyone knows this. Why do I suck so hard at being a woman?
Oh, right. I don’t. I have hair on my legs, because I am both a woman and a human. Humans, it turns out, have hair everywhere because it keeps us warm. Back before we relied upon ASOS for their super cute swing coats, people just ran around naked, wishing for more hair to cover their bits and pieces from the elements. Why, up until the 1920s, women never shaved their legs. It was only with rising hemlines that society decided women should be less furry. However, now, hairlessness is considered the Right and Natural Way of Things. In less than 100 years, we have gone from being okay with the actual natural state of a woman’s body to reviling it.
What the hell? We’re not fooling anyone. It’s not like men don’t know we have hair. Unless you’ve lasered ever follicle on your body, chances are a man has felt stubble on your legs. If it’s even remotely cold outside, I can shave four times a day and still not stay smooth. My legs want to be warm! Yet, I keep investing in razors and fancy shaving creams. Last week, in a quest to go more than a day with smooth legs, I even tried the infamously smelly depilatory cream, Nair. It both smelled and burned. It was like I rubbed aloe-scented battery acid on my poor calves. Worse, it wasn’t even worth it! Despite all the itching and redness that really told me something scientific was happening, the hair still came back the next day.
So, what’s the point? Why do we add an extra ten minutes to each day, just to get rid of hair that will come back anyway? We are wasting so much time, kittens. If I’d shaved every day since I was eleven, that would be 40 whole days spent on depilation.
Of course, I haven’t shaved every day for sixteen years. Some boyfriendless winters, I’ve gone weeks without picking up a razor. Such is the glory of wearing tights or jeans most days. I’m only complaining now, because a winter without that option is unfurling before me. Despite how apt I am to shout “Vive le revolution!” and throw out my razor, I still give in. When I’m making out with Professor McGregor, I don’t want to worry about the forest on my legs and whether he’s making any judgments about it. So, I shave. So, I grumble.
One day, perhaps I will have the courage of my convictions and stop this ridiculous farce. Until then, let me just say: this sucks. Now, pass me that damned razor.