On armpit hair

So, I was ten years old, and my friend Kate's father was pushing us on a tire swing outside of my family's apartment. That particular summer was hot, even for the valley, so it was approximately a hundred and twelve degrees outside, and we were all wearing shorts and tank tops and still melting away.

Mid-swing push, Kate's father gave his daughter a look and pointed to my incredibly pale legs: "See, Holly doesn't shave her legs."

My ten-year-old legs were so pale they were practically translucent, chubby and covered in a furry mat of dark brown hair. Kate, on the other hand, was several inches taller than me, California suntanned, and the nicks, scrapes, and a few missed patches of blonde hair on her legs were a sure sign that she had just shaved them with her dad's razor - much to his dismay.

Needless to say, I went home and put pants within minutes, and I proceeded to spend the rest of the month begging my mother to let me shave my legs too. Eventually, I won. For the next eleven years, I painstakingly removed the hair on my legs and under my arms every other day. Anything longer than stubble meant jeans and long sleeved t-shirts, accompanied with a healthy dose of fear of wearing shorts in gym class that day. I strove to make sure that the popular girls at school didn't realize that my smooth skin was really a trick - that without constant care and upkeep, I'd look like Bigfoot's younger sister.

About a month ago, I got sick of the illusion. My fibromyalgia getting worse every year made it harder and harder to shave, and suddenly I realized that shaving my legs took more effort than shaving my head. Is it just me, or does that seem a little ridiculous? So, I gave it up (despite my mother's insistance that she is going to shave my legs for me if I don't start again).

A month later, I couldn't be happier with my decision. My showers are half as long, so hey, I'm saving water - plus, they're a less painful experience, fibro-wise. The only downsides have been coming from other people, not from me: raising my arms in public is rewarded with some weird looks. I've also had to start playing a new game: "Is that girl in Starbucks checking me out or judging my hairy legs?" I've started noticing that people can't get over the combination of pretty dresses and painstakingly manicured nails with hairy legs and armpits.

But you know what? That's okay. I am so much happier hairy than I ever was hairless. Also, Alix Olson totally agrees with me, so I'm probably not all wrong.

you turn 13, they put a razor in your hand
to teach you the difference between a woman and a man
you see, chicks smooth their pits so boys can smooth the chicks
but i was different, i wanted to smooth the chicks



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