A little while ago, Karen, Kristan, and I took a creative writing class. I’ve never really considered myself of good writer, but what can you do? I had fun taking the class. In fact, it was pretty hilarious. I felt like I was in a social experiment every week…our teacher was crazy, and the other members of the class were quite interesting. I wish you all could have been there to experience the wonder that was creative writing 101. Anyways, one of our assignments was to write about something we hated. It was pretty interesting to hear what people came up with. The “angry lesbian” in the class hated “happy couples,” that’s right, happy freaking couples. She was crazy, and I’m pretty sure she was on the verge of killing the next happy couple she saw. Someone else hated apples, random right? I can’t remember what everyone else hated, but I got a kick out of them at the time. Anyways, here’s what I came up with…..
I hate to shave my legs in the winter. There’s just something about shaved legs in the winter that is absolutely pointless. It’s like making the bed in the morning – I guess people make their bed out of habit, or a sense of duty, but really, what’s the point? It’s going to get messed up twelve hours later, and most likely, nobody will ever see it looking nice, but for some unexplainable reason, people just keep on going about their business, tucking in those sheets, every single morning, like the world will end if one corner is left out.
I’m pretty sure I quit shaving my legs out of laziness. I don’t remember making a conscious decision to quit shaving, but let’s face it, for someone who can barely muster a couple of showers a week, having silky smooth legs just isn’t very high on the priority list. So between the months of October and April I keep my socially-unacceptable-man-legs hidden under pants, leggings, and tights, but every once in a while, they sneak out of hibernation only to be frightened back in by the reaction of their more civilized onlookers.
The looks my fury friends receive are rather shocking. From these looks, you’d think my legs were survivors of a horrible accident left marled and mangled, left so deformed that onlookers cannot muster the strength to look away. These onlookers have to hold their gazes a little longer to convince themselves that what they are seeing is actually real. Many take three or four quick glances, scanning back and forth between my face and my legs, wondering to themselves, “Are those legs really on a girl, or am I just imagining the horror that is before my eyes.”
If only these incriminating eyes knew the joy that my man hair brings me. Gone are the dread filled prickly pear days of snagging nylons on a single day’s growth. Gone is the lava that used to burst through my skin after one bout of shivers, leaving me with nothing to show for my extra time logged in the shower. These days I spend extra time in bed embracing my decision to abstain from the razor. Now my winter coat keeps my legs extra toasty all winter long, while my pocket book lavishes the extra weight it endures with the money it protects from being wasted on shaving gel, razors, exfoliates, and lotions.
Others also reap the awards from my abstinence. My roommates no longer have to navigate their way through my fallen hair to enjoy their showers. Boyfriends no longer look at me with pain filled eyes after running their hands over my sandpaper legs. Instead my legs welcome them with open arms like a hug from a childhood teddy bear. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever dated a boy who didn’t grow to appreciate my leg hair.
While others look down on me for my decision, I’ll continue to enjoy my friends down south, keeping me company throughout the cold winter months. Here’s to hating to shave my legs, until shorts and swimsuits refuse to protect them from prying eyes any longer.