The things we learn early on are sometimes the worst things for us.
When I was 7, my mother handed me her giant copy of 'Our Bodies, Our Selves.' She was a pretty progressive woman, and wanted to make sure that I had the best education I could when it came to how my body worked. I remember feeling excited about learning about all these amazing changes my body was going to go through. Underarm hair seemed pretty exciting back then. There was no shame yet.
My mom didn't shave her legs that I can remember. or her underarms. She was a redhead so you couldn't really tell one way or the other. She is not the one that taught me that shaving was something I had to do. Somehow the world taught me what was expected of me. Girls didn't have body hair in public, and that's just the way that it was.
When I was 8, I started getting breasts and hair.... a bit early compared to the other girls in my year. I remember vividly some other child asking me, face distorted with disgust, when I was going to buy a bra, already (because ewww). I was a little chubby. Aparently that meant that the kids around me could tell me that my body was all wrong.
When I was 9, I met the first woman I'd ever known who wore shorts without any care or regard for her furry legs. She was already a hero of mine: she did the makeup for our local theatrical group, and she was smart and knew all the things I ever wanted to know and I wanted to be just like her when I grew up. But I remember seeing her unshaven legs and being.... confused. Women's legs weren't supposed to be hairy in public. Was this really a woman? Or was she a man in disguise?
When I was 9, I also learned how to shave my arm pits. I still had safety scissors in my craft room, but putting a razor against my flesh was a skill I was expected to learn. I remember how proud I was be wearing a sleeveless shirt, and still be able to raise my hand in class. I even remember my best friend's eye's widening in shock and wonder: we had only nights early been trying to cleanly shave and we were just not able to do it right. This was mostly because we were just being too gentle with our razors. You have to use some pressure to get a clean shave, as scary as that might be to a little girl who really didn't want to shave her skin off.
When I was 10, I acidentally shaved my skin off. Two square inches of skin gone. blood everywhere. I still have a scar. After the shock and fear wore off, I was really just worried about how I would shave my legs with a scab that big.
When I was 13, I spent much of my time worrying that someone would notice my arm hair. It was darker and longer. (I know because I made a point of looking at other girls and compairing myself to them.) I had at some point thought my arm hair was pretty cool: age 9 me would lick my arms and make my arm hair lay down in fancy patterns. But age 13 me was reaaly really scared that someone would think I was ugly because I had arm hair.
When I was 14 I had taken to shaving my arms every day. Until some magazine told me I should NEVER shave my arms because that will just make it grow back thicker and darker, and you don't want that, now, do you??
When I was 15, one of my friends told us that her mom was going to start taking her to get her whole body waxed. At a salon. She wouldn't ever have to worry about hair again.
When I was 16, I learned how to pluck my eyebrows. I stared at my face for hours every day trying to get every little out of place hair. And then I had to stop for a while because I had almost plucked myself bare.
And at 16, the lunch table wanted to know why this one boy would ever grow a mustache when he couldn't grow a beard. His face got red and he pointed at me. 'Well she has one." Shocked silence. Everyone else pretended it hadn't been said. Girls don't have mustaches. It's taboo to mention a girl's unacceptable body hair in public. Just look away, change the subject.
By 17 I had hair in lots of places that I didn't want it. I had hair in so many places that for a few weeks I thought maybe I was supposed to have been a boy. No girl should ever have hair in these places! It was unnatural, hideous, disgusting, and just plain wrong. I couldn't tell anyone because I was so ashamed. Except my mother, of course. She loved me. She took me to a doctor who told me I could take a pill and lose some weight and the hair would slow down.... never go away, just slow.
By 18 I had internally decided that no man would ever love a woman if they were hairy. Hairy men were okay. They were manly. But hairy women were a little freakish. It bothered me so much that I spent endless hours trying to decide what the proper protocol should be: should I tell my future husband that I'm hairy before we get married? Should I strip down and let him inspect me before he commits to life with a freak show? Or should I start saving my money NOW to pay for hair removal and just never meet a man until I can afford it. I just knew that it would be wrong of me to not mention it, to trick some nice guy into marrying someone with hair on her butt.
At age 21 I attempted to use an Epilator to get all of my hair off. Those things are goddamnmotherfuckingdemonspawn. But beauty is pain, right?
At age 22, the magazine I was reading told me that I should never make fun of a man's back hair because they are sensitive about these things. Instead, I should make sure to tell them how sexy and manly their thick hair is.
At age 23, the guy I was sleeping with (very briefly) asked me 'why don't you shave it?' He was refering to the hair on my butt of course. I hadn't brought up my overwhelming fear that no one would love me with hair, he just needed to know why I let myself be hairy. It was strange to him that I had body hair at all and he wanted to know why I didn't fix it. And while I wanted to just pop out of existence like a bubble, or maybe just transport to a dark corner where I could hide, my only answer was a humiliated, 'because it will get worse.' (Because that magazine I read that one time and about ten million internet sites and fashion shows, but not ever a doctor had told me that shaved hair grows back thicker. ) I decided that he would probably like it better if we had sex in the dark from now on. Or maybe I would go get a wax job later, and commit to spending a hundred or so dollars a month making my body all smooth and hairless like a baby.
He broke up with me 3 days later. I was heartsick.
I'm 26 now. If I were to calculate the amount of time, energy and money that I have dedicated over to altering my god given body to make it match societal expectations of hairlessness, I would assuredly be depressed beyond belief.
It has lately occurred to me that I was supposed to be learning how to love my body. That was the whole point of mom and I spending hours of childhood learning about my body and my self. I was supposed to learn that this body was natural and wholesome and good.
The other day I wore shorts without shaving my legs. I stood in the summer sun, and I felt the breeze all over my body. The wind pulled at the hairs on my legs and arms, and it felt amazing.
The man that I love tells me that I can do whatever I want with my body. He's right. But there is a part of me that still needs to ask him, time and time again, is it okay if I have some stubble today? Are you ashamed of my legs? Would you think I was more sexy if I shaved past my knee? Do you mind that I have a bit of a beard today? Would you feel better about me if I waxed off my mustache?
And every time, he looks at me like I'm crazy. Of course he loves me, hair and all. Of course he thinks I'm incredibly sexy no matter how hairy my legs are. He doesn't see the flaws like I do. To him, the hair on my face isn't a flaw, it's just a part of me. and he loves all of me.
It's time for me to learn a new lesson. Society has brainwashed me into hating my own body and this must end now.
My body is a temple. It holds my being, my soul. It is the home that I have for the rest of my life. And for this, I should love all of it, all of my body. not parts of it. All of it.
In Sunday school, someone taught me that God loves every hair on my head. She counted them when she made me and she loves every single one.
It's time for me to start believing that she loves all the hair on my whole body, from the top of my head, to my hairy big toe. And I should love all of me too.
My mom didn't shave her legs that I can remember. or her underarms. She was a redhead so you couldn't really tell one way or the other. She is not the one that taught me that shaving was something I had to do. Somehow the world taught me what was expected of me. Girls didn't have body hair in public, and that's just the way that it was.
When I was 8, I started getting breasts and hair.... a bit early compared to the other girls in my year. I remember vividly some other child asking me, face distorted with disgust, when I was going to buy a bra, already (because ewww). I was a little chubby. Aparently that meant that the kids around me could tell me that my body was all wrong.
When I was 9, I met the first woman I'd ever known who wore shorts without any care or regard for her furry legs. She was already a hero of mine: she did the makeup for our local theatrical group, and she was smart and knew all the things I ever wanted to know and I wanted to be just like her when I grew up. But I remember seeing her unshaven legs and being.... confused. Women's legs weren't supposed to be hairy in public. Was this really a woman? Or was she a man in disguise?
When I was 9, I also learned how to shave my arm pits. I still had safety scissors in my craft room, but putting a razor against my flesh was a skill I was expected to learn. I remember how proud I was be wearing a sleeveless shirt, and still be able to raise my hand in class. I even remember my best friend's eye's widening in shock and wonder: we had only nights early been trying to cleanly shave and we were just not able to do it right. This was mostly because we were just being too gentle with our razors. You have to use some pressure to get a clean shave, as scary as that might be to a little girl who really didn't want to shave her skin off.
When I was 10, I acidentally shaved my skin off. Two square inches of skin gone. blood everywhere. I still have a scar. After the shock and fear wore off, I was really just worried about how I would shave my legs with a scab that big.
When I was 13, I spent much of my time worrying that someone would notice my arm hair. It was darker and longer. (I know because I made a point of looking at other girls and compairing myself to them.) I had at some point thought my arm hair was pretty cool: age 9 me would lick my arms and make my arm hair lay down in fancy patterns. But age 13 me was reaaly really scared that someone would think I was ugly because I had arm hair.
When I was 14 I had taken to shaving my arms every day. Until some magazine told me I should NEVER shave my arms because that will just make it grow back thicker and darker, and you don't want that, now, do you??
When I was 15, one of my friends told us that her mom was going to start taking her to get her whole body waxed. At a salon. She wouldn't ever have to worry about hair again.
When I was 16, I learned how to pluck my eyebrows. I stared at my face for hours every day trying to get every little out of place hair. And then I had to stop for a while because I had almost plucked myself bare.
And at 16, the lunch table wanted to know why this one boy would ever grow a mustache when he couldn't grow a beard. His face got red and he pointed at me. 'Well she has one." Shocked silence. Everyone else pretended it hadn't been said. Girls don't have mustaches. It's taboo to mention a girl's unacceptable body hair in public. Just look away, change the subject.
By 17 I had hair in lots of places that I didn't want it. I had hair in so many places that for a few weeks I thought maybe I was supposed to have been a boy. No girl should ever have hair in these places! It was unnatural, hideous, disgusting, and just plain wrong. I couldn't tell anyone because I was so ashamed. Except my mother, of course. She loved me. She took me to a doctor who told me I could take a pill and lose some weight and the hair would slow down.... never go away, just slow.
By 18 I had internally decided that no man would ever love a woman if they were hairy. Hairy men were okay. They were manly. But hairy women were a little freakish. It bothered me so much that I spent endless hours trying to decide what the proper protocol should be: should I tell my future husband that I'm hairy before we get married? Should I strip down and let him inspect me before he commits to life with a freak show? Or should I start saving my money NOW to pay for hair removal and just never meet a man until I can afford it. I just knew that it would be wrong of me to not mention it, to trick some nice guy into marrying someone with hair on her butt.
At age 21 I attempted to use an Epilator to get all of my hair off. Those things are goddamnmotherfuckingdemonspawn. But beauty is pain, right?
At age 22, the magazine I was reading told me that I should never make fun of a man's back hair because they are sensitive about these things. Instead, I should make sure to tell them how sexy and manly their thick hair is.
At age 23, the guy I was sleeping with (very briefly) asked me 'why don't you shave it?' He was refering to the hair on my butt of course. I hadn't brought up my overwhelming fear that no one would love me with hair, he just needed to know why I let myself be hairy. It was strange to him that I had body hair at all and he wanted to know why I didn't fix it. And while I wanted to just pop out of existence like a bubble, or maybe just transport to a dark corner where I could hide, my only answer was a humiliated, 'because it will get worse.' (Because that magazine I read that one time and about ten million internet sites and fashion shows, but not ever a doctor had told me that shaved hair grows back thicker. ) I decided that he would probably like it better if we had sex in the dark from now on. Or maybe I would go get a wax job later, and commit to spending a hundred or so dollars a month making my body all smooth and hairless like a baby.
He broke up with me 3 days later. I was heartsick.
I'm 26 now. If I were to calculate the amount of time, energy and money that I have dedicated over to altering my god given body to make it match societal expectations of hairlessness, I would assuredly be depressed beyond belief.
It has lately occurred to me that I was supposed to be learning how to love my body. That was the whole point of mom and I spending hours of childhood learning about my body and my self. I was supposed to learn that this body was natural and wholesome and good.
The other day I wore shorts without shaving my legs. I stood in the summer sun, and I felt the breeze all over my body. The wind pulled at the hairs on my legs and arms, and it felt amazing.
The man that I love tells me that I can do whatever I want with my body. He's right. But there is a part of me that still needs to ask him, time and time again, is it okay if I have some stubble today? Are you ashamed of my legs? Would you think I was more sexy if I shaved past my knee? Do you mind that I have a bit of a beard today? Would you feel better about me if I waxed off my mustache?
And every time, he looks at me like I'm crazy. Of course he loves me, hair and all. Of course he thinks I'm incredibly sexy no matter how hairy my legs are. He doesn't see the flaws like I do. To him, the hair on my face isn't a flaw, it's just a part of me. and he loves all of me.
It's time for me to learn a new lesson. Society has brainwashed me into hating my own body and this must end now.
My body is a temple. It holds my being, my soul. It is the home that I have for the rest of my life. And for this, I should love all of it, all of my body. not parts of it. All of it.
In Sunday school, someone taught me that God loves every hair on my head. She counted them when she made me and she loves every single one.
It's time for me to start believing that she loves all the hair on my whole body, from the top of my head, to my hairy big toe. And I should love all of me too.
Comments
Post a Comment