HAIR
“I realized that the hair is there for a reason. It’s the leaf around the flower, the lawn around the house. ”
Dear Hadley,
I was shaving my armpits in the shower this morning and thought of you.
With the intention of getting waxed next weekend, I was two days into letting the hair grow out. But, predictably, I got sick of waiting and went back to the usual daily shave.
I love the feeling of a clean underarm. But I hate the daily tending. I also hate that I’m knowingly (willingly!) following this time-wasting, gender-conforming, unnecessary societal beauty standard.
And yet, here I am.
Compulsively shaving my pits.
The reason I thought of you wasn’t armpit specific. It was just that as I stood there with my men’s military grade assault quattro razor, I realized how much my feelings about my hairs have changed over the years. Maybe, across time, yours will too?
In my teens and early twenties, I removed everything. I plucked my brows into two barely-there lines, hardly thicker than strands of waxed dental floss (fashion!). I shaved my blonde legs, hip to ankle, daily. I individually tweezed every single one of the little hairs on my big toes.
No Hair Left Behind.
But as I approached thirty, my philosophy started to shift.
It began with my brows. I did a year without any plucking. Full dedication to regrowth and fullness. My natural shape returned. I loved watching each new hair come in. Hello you little cutie! Welcome home!
I loved that they eventually grew long enough to look messy after a good sleep.
(During this time, your perfect kid brows were my inspiration. Your mom and I discussed how we hoped you’d never discover the tweezers. Could she somehow hide them from you forever? Would that be too controlling? We both assumed that living an entire life with those gorgeous, untouched caterpillars would be a superior existence—an advantage we wished for you to have.)
The hair on my head came along for the low-maintenance ride. I stopped with the regularly scheduled highlights. I loved seeing my Dad-given dirty blonde return. I loved watching it change colors naturally with the seasons. I stopped obsessing about the ends being even. I let it grow and grow and grow. Occasionally I’d trim it with kitchen scissors. Snip snip, here or there. No formula, no attempt at precision. Unsurprisingly: no one ever noticed, commented, or cared.
I wonder if you and your friends talk about pubic hair. My friends and I do. We always have—but in greater detail with age. I’d like to imagine that by the time you read this you’ll be casually discussing the realities of hidden body hair over coffee.
We all have it.
So why not?
When I reached puberty in the late 1990s, I thought pubic hair was hideous, totally unacceptable. It was fine, of course, for the boys to have it. But not the girls, not me.
So as soon as mine started coming in, I started shaving it off. It became habitual. Part of my daily routine.
Brush teeth.
Wash face.
Obsessively remove any and all evidence of pubic hair.
A shower was not a shower without a quick pass of the razor. At the time: a twin blade disposable Bic.
In my mid-twenties, I started scheduling regular Brazilian waxes. The instructions were the same every time: take it all off.
The technician became a friend. I’d lay on the paper-covered table with my legs spread wide open and we’d chat about our dating lives and the books we were reading as she tugged, pulled, ripped. Without breaking conversation, I’d flip over to hands and knees, so she could get in there from behind. Eventually, she’d swivel the task lamp over to hand-pluck the remaining individual hairs that had stubbornly resisted the sticky muscle of the hot blue-green wax.
I can’t begin to guess how much time and money I spent on upkeep. Not only the appointments, but also the arsenal of products (tea tree salt scrubs, calming creams, cancer-causing powders, lavender infused witch hazel) necessary to reduce the inevitable ingrown hairs and irritations.
A vicious cycle.
Then one day I woke up and realized I had become a grown woman who had never actually seen her own pubic hair beyond the waxable half inch.
As with my brows, I grew it all out. Full bush. For a long time, I didn’t even trim the sides. I watched this dark shock of hair grow down my inner thighs. An untamed primal poof, sticking out from all sides of my underwear. I ran my fingers through it constantly, finding comfort in the dense warmth. I delighted in the not-so-soft softness, the untangled tangle. I couldn’t stop looking in the mirror, admiring my grown up body.
I’d never felt sexier.
My ambition is to one day let it all grow wild and free: my legs, my armpits, my pubic hair, my toes. And then to go to the beach in my bikini—confident, unfazed by the disapproving gaze of others. Some days I dream of shaving my head and letting everything else grow long. A follicular fuck you to the patriarchy.
I’m not there yet (as evidenced by my morning shave, my yesterday pluck and trim). Though I admire those who are: my beautiful friend with her thick hairy legs and dark armpits; the gorgeous woman with her cleanly shaved head, refusing to hide or conform.
Maybe some day.
Maybe not.
The thing about your head hair is that you can cut it all off and it will grow back. Slowly, very very slowly, but surely.
But with body hair, there are options for permanent alterations. Lasers are mighty things.
My only wish for you is that you don’t make an early decision that will prohibit the option of some day (even just one day) experiencing your natural state.
If only so you can witness.
If only so you can change your mind.
If only so you can weigh your options before arriving on your personal preference.
And mostly: so you can stand in front of your full length mirror and fall in love with the fullness of what you have, what we all have.
I love you and every single one of your wild, wonderful, DNA rich hairs.
Aunt Liz
Here’s a photo that served as my full bush inspiration. “Georgia O’Keeffe—Torso, 1918” by Alfred Stieglitz. The first time I saw this photo (it was sent it me by one of my favorite people, a young woman who has always lived comfortably in her own body) I felt overwhelmed by the power, strength, beauty. Her strong legs and full breasts and that proud mound of wild black.
