I’m on a hen do. This morning I showed some of the girls my hairy legs at breakfast. I shave sometimes, but I was impressed with the growth in the last two weeks and kinda proud of my wild wee legs so I’ve kept growing.
They laughed as I described swimming with hairy legs, ‘it’s like swimming through seaweed, your hair undulates back and forth from the follicle as you kick out your legs’ - it feels fun. Maybe that’s what it’s like to have fish scales rippling in the water as one propels their body forward.
I also mentioned when a guy spots you have hairy legs, at any level of undress, and how they do not give a damn. Maybe they then know you give less of a shit too, it’s empowering. By simply having hair in a place we’re told not to – you become a rebel. Erm – team - it does just grow there. I mean, it’s literally there - but nice to have a wild smile thinking about rebellion for doing the total sum of sweet F A.
The hair debate is funny.
I’ve been so paranoid about hair growing where it shouldn’t I’ve had it ripped out;
I’ve bled trying to manage ingrown hairs;
I’ve had arguments with boyfriends about my bikini line and how it’s MINE whether it’s clear to land or jungle style.
I’ve had ALL my pubic hair removed. It. Is. Weird.
I’ve not bothered to have it ALL removed. That’s considered weird.
I like hair. I like hairy boys. Hubba hubba. But we’re not supposed to like hairy girls – apart from the hair on our heads, which has to look like a lace front day after bloody day. Having strong, dark hair growing on my legs, to me, accents my strength, it makes me feel like I’m something other than a body. It’s warmth, it increases the sensation on my legs – I can FEEL more.
Maybe ripping out all this hair is just supposed to stop us feeling anything? Apart from pain at the point of removal. Well. I want to feel EVERYTHING.
(‘lace front’ is a reference to lace front wig, a really realistic, beautiful, body maximums wig like the ones Nicole Kidman or RuPaul sport.)
Sunday 10 April 2016
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