Like many women, I have had a long and complicated relationship with body hair. Armpits, legs, bikini line, all have at one time or another been a bane to my existence. Like many, I have gone through phases where I was obsessively sans poils, trying out laser, tweezering until cross-eyed, and shaving gleefully. I have also gone through years where I proudly wore the hair on my body as a sign of my feminist beliefs, arguing loudly with men who told me it was disgusting. Each choice, hairy or hairless, had strong repercussions in my mind of who I was as a person and woman. Hairy: a lazy, repulsive, de-sexualized sloth; hairless: a sell-out to the cheap ideal of femininity sold in glossy magazines. Either way, I lost. Lately, I have become less analytical and obsessive in my approach to body hair and have chosen the path of least resistance: whatever's easiest and makes me feel most comfortable. Sometimes it's full bush and sometimes it's smooth as a baby's bottom.
So as I was rushing about getting ready for my boxing class, I thought, let me have a look at those legs. I pulled up my pants, placed a foot on the edge of the tub and inspected the growth between ankle and knee. My legs were not at their hairiest but were definitely sprouting a fine carpet of fur. Seeing as I was going into a predominantly male and somewhat macho environment and was already feeling insecure about it, I chose to blend in, to become invisible. To do so meant a quick shave before I ran out the door.
I rolled up my pants properly, turned on the taps, found a razor, lathered up and shaved my legs. Quickly. Then some body oil. Rub rub. As I was rolling my pants back down, I noticed there were some nicks on my legs, little red drops of blood where I had shaved an ingrown hair or a follicle. Only problem, there were a lot. No worries, thought I, it'll dry by the time I get to the gym.
No such luck. When I peeled off my pants in the changing room, my legs were streaked with still flowing blood. No clotting whatsoever. I put on my shorts and started to curse under my breath. I then spent ten minutes rubbing at my legs hoping to make the blood disappear, stop, whatever. I just ended up with bloody hands.
Then I had to go to class, where I was the only woman among half a dozen guys, most under twenty. I looked down at my war-ravaged legs: strange streaks and spots of blood glowing in the midday light. I felt, what is the word, SELF-CONSCIOUS, yes, that's it. Luckily no one said, Oh my god, your legs are bleeding!!
And then it was time to fight. I gritted my teeth and told myself that next time, I would definitely not shave or even better, would bring pants instead of shorts, the easiest option of all. God love long pants!
Don't worry, the irony is not lost on me.
