Why I Refuse to Shave My Legs

Even though I really want to. (Sometimes.)

It was 1989, the year of the Epilady. I was 13, a precocious little teenager, and I’d been harassing my mother all year to buy me one of these expensive beauty products for Christmas.

“I don’t want to waste my money,” she argued. “I know you won’t use it. It’ll hurt like hell.”

I laughed. My mother was so uncool. “It doesn’t hurt,” I insisted. “Haven’t you seen the commercial?” Avoid the pain of waxing, they said. The Epilady whisks hair from below the surface of the skin, leaving your legs smoother, longer. (I can still hear that confident, feminine voice all these years later.)

My mom was a softie when it came to gifts, though. If I wanted something badly enough, she’d get it for me, within reason. So that Christmas, I unwrapped my Epilady and felt like a grown-up woman for the first time.

I waited until the next day to try it, resting one foot on the edge of the bathtub, the way women always did in the commercials. Like an elegant swan…about to rip out her leg hairs by the roots.

I smiled, turning on the device. I could imagine my hairless legs, no longer marred by stubble. This was going to change my life and I’d finally feel beautiful and feminine.

I touched it to my legs and immediately felt as if someone was stabbing me with a dozen tiny needles. I pulled it back, staring at it in horror thinking it must be malfunctioning. Nothing appeared to be amiss so I tried again, and again was struck by the intense pain.

Dammit. I realized my mother was right and the commercial was a lie. This was not “whisking hair away.” This was “pulling it out by its roots.” And it hurt like hell.

I crept into my mother’s bathroom while she was brushing her teeth, wearing a chagrined expression on my face. “Does this have a return policy?” I asked, holding up the Epilady.

She took the toothbrush out of her mouth and glared at me.

At 25, I’d been shaving my calves for 13 years. I hated it. I tend to run cold and would always start shivering after I got out of the shower and it seemed like my freshly shaved legs would suddenly feel stubbly again. How was that possible?

“We have to start waxing,” my best friend, Isa said. She’s Castilian and has battled with dark, excessive body hair her whole life.

She bought an at-home waxing kit one spring break, when I was staying at her apartment for a long visit.

“You wanna start?” she asked, pulling out the kit.

Like the good friend that I am, I volunteered to do her, first. I still remembered the pain of that Epilady and was in no hurry to try it again.

After I ripped off the first strip, her face went blank. “Shit, that really hurt,” she said, after a moment.

After I ripped off the second strip, she rolled over onto her stomach, resting her head in the crook of her elbow.

“You okay?” I asked.

She only nodded.

After I ripped off a third strip, her whole body jerked then went still for a moment before she rolled over, got up, and stepped away from me. “I’m done,” she said.

“You’ve gotta let me finish,” I protested. “You look like a wolf who had electrolysis on one section of its leg. It looks ridiculous!”

“Fuck it,” she said, walking toward the kitchen, presumably for a glass of wine after all that. “This isn’t worth the pain.”

“Son of a motherfucking bitch!” I screamed.

My highly anxious dog ran across the room at this expletive, tucking himself safely under my partner’s legs, where he sat in the recliner.

“I told you this wasn’t a good idea,” he yelled from the living room, petting the dog.

“They said it wouldn’t hurt! I’m determined to get this right!” I growled.

I smoothed more of the sugar mixture onto my leg, trying to imitate that quick, jerking pull that’s supposed to painlessly pull your hair out by the roots. (Yeah, I was still falling for that line, even in my 30s.)

With each tug, I let out another stream of expletives. Finally, my partner stood and said, “I’ll be in the bedroom with the dog. You’re freaking him out.”

The next morning, I touched my beautifully smooth legs, and though they felt great, I was shocked to see that they were covered in bruises from all the yanking I’d done at my skin. Smooth yet still not feminine and pretty.

I feel like I’ve been on a quest to find perfect, beautiful, feminine legs since I started shaving at 12. Did I even need to shave, I wonder? I don’t remember having dark hairs at that time. I just wanted to shave so badly.

My mother protested. She insisted that as soon as I started shaving, I’d get coarse, dark hairs growing in and I’d never be free of shaving again. But I was determined to take this step into womanhood. Thankfully, I listened to her when she told me not to shave above the knee and to this day, I only have sparse, blonde fuzz on my thighs.

But no, she was right about my calves. They caught hell…and fast: long, dark hairs that needed daily shaving.

I’ve always been attracted to the idea of pulling them out by the roots, whether from an epilator, waxing, or sugaring, but that idea is not sexy when you actually feel the pain. So I accepted I’d have to shave for the rest of my life.

Or would I?

I got sick of the whole process last summer. I was so tired of constantly shaving my calves and underarms. I started letting my body hair grow out until I had to show up somewhere in a tank top or shorts.

Maybe part of it was laziness, but a lot of it was rebellion. The truth is, I don’t want to feel like I have to remove my body hair in order to be pretty or feminine.

In fact, that whole notion of “femininity” is absurd, when you think about it. Our cultural definition of femininity was created by the media’s obsession with perfect, youthful women, and the beauty industry’s determination to sell us the idea that our bodies aren’t beautiful enough without intervention from their products.

I was assigned the female gender at birth and I identify as a female. My body, as a mammal (female or not), is somewhat hairy. Which means, yes, “feminine” is hairy. Being a female means being hairy.

So why should I feel less feminine for having hairy legs?

I wish I didn’t. But I do. (Thanks, media and beauty industry!)

Last summer, after breaking down and shaving my legs so I could wear shorts to an educational event I was hosting, I immediately noticed that the event coordinator had unshaven legs. She was wearing denim shorts and fringed ankle boots and letting her leg hair fly free and she looked feminine and sexy as hell.

Once again, I let my hair grow out and once again, felt like Sasquatch. Why didn’t I look as cute as she did?

Sunny thinks I’m taking my feminist experiment too far. She insists it’s not a failure to succumb to feminine beauty standards. “I can’t stand having hairy legs,” she tells me, often.

But let me tell you, there are things about my hairy legs that I love. Well, maybe just one thing. They are so soft now. Softer than they have ever been. It took a few months for the coarseness of those stubbly ends to smooth out, but now, my legs feel soft and fuzzy, instead of hairless yet prickly. I love that so much, I often find myself stroking my own legs when I’m reading or watching TV.

And I don’t fully agree with Sunny. I don’t think I’m taking my experiment far enough. I don’t feel like I’ll have succeeded until I can take off my clothes in front of a new lover with total abandon, confident that my hairy legs don’t determine my sexiness. Until I can walk proudly into a grocery store wearing Daisy Dukes and my outrageous leg hair. Until I can stop feeling like I have to hide it, explain it, or apologize for it.

I fear I still have a long way to go on this journey. I still struggle with my own judgments around how it looks. Why does it have to be so dark and my skin so damn pale? Why does it have to get so long? And dammit, why does it have to stand erect? My ex’s leg hair always laid flat against his skin, whereas mine looks like I’ve just been electrocuted. What the hell is that about?

But no! Dammit. I am determined to win this battle. I don’t care how long it takes me.

This is my way of taking back my power — of defining myself no matter how I look.

Sunny is right about it not mattering if we choose to embrace beauty standards or not. Feminism has countless different expressions. But my own sense of feminism insists that I find my way through this. That I allow my body to be the way it was designed to be without shame.

To me, that’s what my hairy legs are all about.

© Yael Wolfe 2020