If you are a past boyfriend, or potentially a future boyfriend, or just someone that would like to maintain the mystique and allure possibly surrounding the image of me, you may want to skip this post. You have been warned. This post is about leg hair.
I shave my legs every day. Even in the winter. Even when I’m going to wear pants. Even when no one else could possibly know if I have shaved them. If I have running water, I shave. Always. Always, that is, until somehow, I bent the metal blade part of my razor in the middle of Patagonia. That was five days ago. When I bathe, I still look for my razor. I reach for it. I feel under water. Then I think, oh, that’s right it’s broken. I broke a blade. There are no refills here. I need to get a new razor. Then, 15 minutes later, I’m looking for the razor in the bathtub again.
It’s so odd that this is the natural state of my body yet I have no idea what to expect. Will the hair be very long? Will it stop growing at some point. Is it soft? Is it prickly? It’s disturbing. I keep looking at it. Look at those strange dark colored things growing out my skin. Whose body is this? It feels strange to get into bed and feel something there between my skin and the sheets. I can imagine how this must have felt to a woman in the 60’s who stopped shaving as a statement. I can imagine how it would feel empowering. Resisting. Strong. I can imagine that… in theory, but for me personally I have to keep swallowing a bit of revulsion at the feel of it on my legs.
I started shaving after my friend Amanda Lee even though she was younger than I was. Amanda Lee had an older sister, so she did everything before I did. Her older sister explained it to her and then she explained it to me. I remember deciding to shave. Sitting in the bathtub with my mom’s razor. I remember being so afraid of cutting myself that I used so much soap I could hardly hold the razor. Then, afterward, marching out of the bathroom and announcing it to my mom. I stood in the hallway. She sat in her old brown recliner. And I said, defiantly, “I shaved my legs.” I felt as though I had just stolen something. Or smoked a cigarette. Or announced I was moving out. Or killed someone. “I shaved my legs.” My statement was momentous. I don’t remember what she responded.
So, I have hairy legs. How long will this last? Maybe only another day or two. I can’t imagine returning to camping this way. I doubt I will chose to lock myself in without the alternative to shave for another five days. Already I have looked up the Spanish word for razor. Don’t even ask about my armpits. I can barely even type the word armpit.
I shave my legs every day. Even in the winter. Even when I’m going to wear pants. Even when no one else could possibly know if I have shaved them. If I have running water, I shave. Always. Always, that is, until somehow, I bent the metal blade part of my razor in the middle of Patagonia. That was five days ago. When I bathe, I still look for my razor. I reach for it. I feel under water. Then I think, oh, that’s right it’s broken. I broke a blade. There are no refills here. I need to get a new razor. Then, 15 minutes later, I’m looking for the razor in the bathtub again.
It’s so odd that this is the natural state of my body yet I have no idea what to expect. Will the hair be very long? Will it stop growing at some point. Is it soft? Is it prickly? It’s disturbing. I keep looking at it. Look at those strange dark colored things growing out my skin. Whose body is this? It feels strange to get into bed and feel something there between my skin and the sheets. I can imagine how this must have felt to a woman in the 60’s who stopped shaving as a statement. I can imagine how it would feel empowering. Resisting. Strong. I can imagine that… in theory, but for me personally I have to keep swallowing a bit of revulsion at the feel of it on my legs.
I started shaving after my friend Amanda Lee even though she was younger than I was. Amanda Lee had an older sister, so she did everything before I did. Her older sister explained it to her and then she explained it to me. I remember deciding to shave. Sitting in the bathtub with my mom’s razor. I remember being so afraid of cutting myself that I used so much soap I could hardly hold the razor. Then, afterward, marching out of the bathroom and announcing it to my mom. I stood in the hallway. She sat in her old brown recliner. And I said, defiantly, “I shaved my legs.” I felt as though I had just stolen something. Or smoked a cigarette. Or announced I was moving out. Or killed someone. “I shaved my legs.” My statement was momentous. I don’t remember what she responded.
So, I have hairy legs. How long will this last? Maybe only another day or two. I can’t imagine returning to camping this way. I doubt I will chose to lock myself in without the alternative to shave for another five days. Already I have looked up the Spanish word for razor. Don’t even ask about my armpits. I can barely even type the word armpit.
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