A Harried Mom

Body hair on a women does not bother me, especially if it’s my own body. Growing up I wasn’t allowed to shave until I turned fourteen, but here and there if my mom left out her razor I’d experiment, resulting in some scars on my shins. When I could finally shave I had the goal of removing every hair from my body in the hope they would never return, but they did, just darker and coarser and a new daily chore was born-- made harder by my Baltic ancestry. Then one night in an Italian discotheque that all changed. There was beautiful female bartender (I of course was not drinking) and when she lifted her arm in some Tom Cruise “Cocktail” move a spotlight hit her armpit- illuminating in all its glory, a patch of wiry hair. I was repulsed and mesmerized at the same time, but then it hit me- body hair has nothing to do with cleanliness, instead it’s strictly about culture. A perfect example of how culture dictates beauty, hygiene, and attraction. When I returned home I tried an experiment over the winter and let me hair grow out, my boyfriend (now husband) was not amused, but thus began a cycle. Ever winter I go a little au-natural and come spring, like the lambs grazing in green pastures- the razors, wax strips, tweezers, and depilatory creams come out and I get fully sheared. I think it’s funny that some women try so hard to go against the social grain by getting tattoos, piercings, or Mohawks when all you have to do is grow a little body hair and Americans- male and female alike, are suddenly up in arms. My friends, female body hair is the last great taboo in American culture and I’m living on the edge.