To Hair Or Not To Hair? (and do I hair?…)

When I was 12 years old my mum looked at my legs and sighed. She said: 

Mum: "you will have to start shaving soon" 

We both contemplated my legs. I squinted at the glistening blond hairs that poked out at odd angles. I felt confused. 

Me: "Um, why?" 

My mum the feminist didn't have a good answer. 

Me: "What is wrong with hair? Does it hurt me?" 

Mum looked at me knowingly. 

Mum: "You will understand when you get older" 

But I like my leg hair! I thought rebelliously, it doesn't hurt anyone. I pondered the offensive nature of my leg hair but could see no reason to scrape it off and land it ignominiously in the bin.

One day out of curiosity I picked up my mum's razor and scraped determinedly down my leg. I didn't understand the mechanics of shaving and had soon not only removed the hair but quite a few millimetres of skin. As I watched the blood drip down my leg in growing horror,  I carefully washed the razor and put it back silently promising myself never again. 

I kept that promise through much teasing at high school, my mum's disgust and general incomprehension of why I would not join the many ranks of glistening smooth legs. I had awkward pubescent boys yelling at me to "shave my legs" and when it became apparent that shouting at me in public wasn't going to shame me into doing their bidding, they would argue with me. Telling me it was "unnatural" and "disgusting." 

Just before my own wedding a close friend whispered in my ear "I hope you are going to shave your legs" (I didn't, much to her dismay) I couldn't understand the pressure. I thought it was a choice.

Through the years I also flirted on and off with underarm hair, but discovered it affected my job prospects, to have tufts of hair (which I like) poking out while working in conservative environments. Scout Willis didn't bend to that pressure at her art opening where the main event seemed to be her tiny dark tufts of hair and nipples, rather than her art.

Scout Willis with the "offending" hair

I happen to find underarm hair sexy, but importantly, even if I didn't it belongs to the the person who owns it and unlike the front lawn, there is no maximum length that then has to be mown down so the neighbours can avoid the unsightly tangle of grass (I also quite like lawn jungles, maybe this is one for the psychologists couch?)

The thing that was my downfall was falling head over heel for an attractive scoundrel man, the first person to ask me to shave. Reluctantly, I finally caved to his demand request and waxed and shaved and glistened. I even shaved off my pubic hair and looked awkwardly like a 10 year old girl (this was my biggest regret on many levels) 

But once this whirlwind romance (finally) ended, and the stubble had started making my life an itching hell, I thanked god that I didn't have to torture myself this way again. I realised I liked the hair, and it was here to stay. My partner has less body hair than me and it makes me laugh. We laugh together about my woolly legs, but he doesn't give a damn. 

One day I came out of the shower and I saw my young daughter looking at me in disgust. 

Katie Perry with her idealised hairless pits

Daughter: "You are so hairy mum. Why don't you shave?" 

she said with her nose wrinkling. She looked me up and down as though seeing me for the first time.  

Me: "Ah, because I love my hair." 

I saw her make an internal decision and to my surprise she announced: 

Daughter:"When I grow up I am going to shave off all my hair." 

I was left feeling uncertain about what tact to take, and was disappointed that the example of my glorious thick, healthy, clean and shiny hair hadn't given her the resolve to continue with the more bohemian look. Inconveniently, I had a sudden guilty memory from my childhood of one of my parents "hippy" friends coming toward me with her pubic hair at my eye level. She was proudly sprouting a multitude of unkempt, long, coarse black hairs from her swimming costume. I remembered how uncomfortable and confronted I felt by it at the time. 

It slowly dawned on me that there are very few role models for females in contemporary society that actually show that women have hair in places other than on their head. My daughter had only seen it on "daggy" mum and sadly the mainstream media isn't known for it's body diversity (Internally I cursed all those Katy Perry videos and plastic hairless dolls). Finally I answered with as much composure as I could manage: 

Me: "You can do whatever you like when you grow up. It's your body." 

 Daughter: "I know"

I secretly resolved to find some pictures of Scout Willis to show her, to balance out all the Katy Perry's.