I shaved my legs yesterday.
The first time I
ever shaved my legs I was about twelve years old—maybe thirteen. I was getting ready to go to a church activity and I noticed that the hair on my legs was longer and thicker than it ever had been. Eew! I wondered if I could disguise it by wearing panty-hose (which, yes, I had already started wearing at the ripe, old age of thirteen or so), but my sheer stockings just made the hair look darker instead of hiding it. About the time I was making that discovery, Melanie came in to see what was taking me so long to get ready. So I let her look at my hairy legs, asked her about the panty-hose thing, and she just walked out of the room and brought me back her electric razor. I was a little afraid that maybe I'd be doing something naughty; maybe I should get my mom's permission first. But, dang! I had this embarrassing fur sprouting out of my legs, and I was about to don a cute, knee-length dress and go hang out with my peers. It was time to live dangerously!
Once I started, there was no turning back. It was only a week or two before I progressed to using one of my dad's razors and shaving cream. Then, within a month of that first shaving experience, I noticed another horror: I was in my ballet class, wearing a tank leotard, standing croisse derriere, upstage leg tendu back, arms fifth-high—which looks like this:
And as LeAnn came around to inspect our poses, was I thinking about whether my arms were placed just right, or whether my tummy was pulled up? No. I was noticing this faint new shadow under my arms where none had been before, and I was mortified, and I wondered if anyone else had noticed it. And I knew I'd have to dive into the next phase of this habit.
Of course, first I practiced shaving my legs left-handed so I knew I'd be able to safely shave under my right arm. And it all went so
smoothly. And that was it. I've been shaving once a week ever since then.
Except for lately. With the popularity of maxi skirts, I
have gotten a little lazy. Then, last week, when I mentioned to Bruce that I needed to shave, he asked, "Why? Why do women shave, anyway?"
Hm. I don't know. I do have friends who exult in their maxi skirts which hide their legs and make them feel like they don't need to shave. My sister once told me that she never wanted to shave again—unless she was going swimming. And once I read a magazine article that basically said only single women shave regularly; if a married woman shaves you can be sure she's expecting—or has just had—a romp with her husband.
But if it comes right down to it, I actually
like to shave; I like to be clean-shaven. I love the feel of my super-satiny-smooth legs. (I really like to rub my freshly-shaved legs against each other before I get out of the shower, too; it feels awesome. Weird?) I like that my B.O. doesn't have those little fibers to trap it and hug it next to me. And shaved legs feel
awesome in my new bamboo sheets, too! But mostly—now this is just me, so if some 1970's bra-burning feminist is out there reading this, don't get up in arms—mostly I like to shave because I feel good when I do; it makes me feel
feminine. Yes, I feel girly, and ready to be dressed up, and prettier when I shave my legs.
Anyway, I shaved my legs yesterday, and I thought about all of this, and I wondered: Why
do women shave? (Other women, who are not me.) And how frequently? Because I am nosy like that. So satisfy my curiosity; post a comment on this blog (you can even do it anonymously!). Or answer the poll in the side-bar. Because I just wonder . . .
