Originally posted Thursday, June 22, 2006

I admire the fact that Claire doesn’t shave her legs or armpits. She’s blonde, so the hair’s thin, barely noticeable- but still, it’s a statement, especially in high school. I admire that she doesn’t hide it, that she’s able to endure taunting about it and that she doesn’t compromise herself.
I don’t see myself being able to not-shave. I’m a brunette. I’m half Sri Lankan. My hair’s dark.

I first shaved my legs when I was pretty young- elementary school. It was the story you’ve both heard before, I’m sure; hanging out with older girls, was pressured into it. Interestingly I felt incredibly, incredibly guilty about shaving. I think it had something to dow ith the secrecy- my mom never assumed I’d want to shave at my age, so we didn’t talk about it. I felt awful when I’d take a shower, use my mother’s razor and, using a bar of soap, cut and nick my way up my leg. Stubble. Scabs.
I remember I’d always accidently graze my thumb with the razor when shaving. Something about not knowing how to hold it properly– although one would think that’s pretty self-explanatory. All these little sliced-up (but not bleeding) folds of skin on my thumb. That’s what I associate with shaving.
When I eventually told my mother, it was in the form of a confession. “I have something to tell you”- I was nervous. We were sitting in my car. I can’t remember her reaction. I think she was a bit surprised that I had started, but supportive of my decisions, as she always is. I remember still being ashamed, even after she knew. It was this dirty secret.

The older girls and I were sitting out in the parking lot one summer, wearing shorts. We all had shaved legs, them slim, me prepubescent, a little awkward. One of them had a bit of stubble and was complaining about how she couldn’t wait to get home and shave. Usually, my role was the observer, the listener- watching, always, but saying nothing.
This time, the only time I can remember, I voiced my opinion. “I hate shaving,” I said. “It makes me feel so guilty.”
This is a good memory, because one of the girls- the head honcho, the most popular of them all- turned to me and, sincerely, thanked me for sharing that with them. For being truthful.

Looking back, they must have blamed me just as much for being the silent, shy, tag-along kid as I blame them for being negative influences on my life. They must have wished I’d just participate, open up, play along.

I first shaved my arms in Australia. Ditto pubes. It was at the high point of my self-hatred, my desire for intense transformation. I wanted to become a different person so that when I returned to Vancouver, I could justify having a boyfriend. I would be pretty enough for Zak. I would have tried pretty much anything at that point.
The only other person I knew who shaved her arms was my cousin, Michelle. My mother told me that in the tone of “what a crazy thing to do”. It stuck in my mind. My arm-hairs were fine but dark, visible. They felt smooth and sexy and dangerous with the hair gone, and guilty, like the legs years ago.

Pubes were different. Pubes were scary to shave. There are a lot of contours down there. I felt like a baby without hair. I felt about two years old.

I’d like to think I’m not waging a war against my body- I’d like to think there’s a way to be body-accepting and shaved, too. I like the way my soft legs and arms feel; it feels “clean”. But I know that I shave because it’s “what women do”, it’s what girls do.

I’m too scared not to shave, to go there, to challenge myself into acceptance that way. What bothers me the most is the way that body hair on women becomes associated with so many ‘bad’ things, smells and non-cleanliness, “manliness”. All these disgusting beauty standards that I play into by shaving. That I plan to continue to buy into, although I don’t believe in them. How’s that for hypocrisy?

The fact is, the female body is such a commodity. There are so many things in women, on women, that can be marketed and packaged and sold. Cures for everything- skin colour, eyelid shape, breast size, girth, hip ratio, menstrual cycles, skin, every little follicle- every pore.
Every hair.
As long as we keep buying into it, the culture will keep dictating it, will keep selling.

One day I’ll have hair and I’ll be proud…