Every spring when the weather warms, I have the same conversation with myself. (I hear talking with yourself is a sign of genius.) It goes something like this:
“It’s going to be a warm day, I should shave.”
“Or maybe today could be the day you decide to change America.”
“You know you want to. Start a hairy revolution.”
And so it goes . . .
Who said you had to be hairless to be beautiful? I would like to know who the first woman was who decided that shaving legs and underarms was a good idea. If I could, I would travel back in time and give her a good shaking. Her bad idea has been caught by the whole western culture like some nasty communicable disease. I wonder if even the French women shaving their underarms now too? I hope not – for their sakes. Shaving wastes time and water, and it’s just not fun. So there.
I’ve asked my husband’s thoughts on this, as I’m sure you’re wondering. Over our 11 years together he has gone from liking a clean-shaven me, to telling me point-blank that it really doesn’t matter. His indifference is one point in favor. But it’s not the tipping point.
The tipping point is: could I stand it? Am I brave enough to be the only American woman (who doesn’t wear dreadlocks and smell of patchouli) who has hairy legs? And the answer is no. Sadly, I am not. I don’t think I could bear the gawking and whispers. And so I will continue to pull my Gillette across my flesh, cutting away the hair God put there.