I love summer and all, as evidenced by this entry but I swear to the evil underlord of all that is unholy, that if I could invent a pill that would eliminate body hair, I would. Seriously. It's only June, and already, I'm sick of shaving, I'm disgusted with waxing, I can't stand depilatories, and the epilady I've shoved into the recesses of my closet is making me nervous.
If there were such a pill, I'd market it to all my hairy sisters in arms. Or legs. As it were. I would free them from the shackles of Gillette and Nair and Princess Alexandria's body sugaring.
Over the years, I've invested in pretty much every possible effort to divest myself of hair that you could ever imagine existing. I have a drawer full of wax applicators, half-empty bottles of chemicals that promise to dissolve, bleach, pluck, cut, or otherwise remove offending follicles, awkward electrical appliances which are every bit as painful as they look, a collection of razors that would have the people at Bic trembling in their pink, plastic, daisy-embossed boots. I've spent a fortune on bottles of feminine looking shaving cremes that have smelled like everything from floral bouquets to fresh pears.
Guess what? After all that spending, shaving, waxing, plucking, removing, pulling, ripping, yanking, slicing of the achilles tendon, I AM STILL HAIRY!
You would think that maybe society would change its ways. You would think that I would not be required, at this day and age, to pay an inordinate amount of money for a woman to apply strips of wax-covered fabric to my bikini line just so people at the beach or pool or gym won't have to glimpse any stray pubic hairs. I mean, avert your eyes people! PUBIC HAIR! It's everywhere! Shouldn't we be over it by now? I'm a big prude too. I don't want to see anything sticking out of a bathing suit that shouldn't be. But it's not like pubic hair some big surprise. We've all got it. We should learn to deal with seeing it occasionally.
Cause you know what? IT FUCKING HURTS LIKE HELL TO REMOVE IT!
Those women on the infomercials who sit there placidly while the hostess of the sadistic little torture party rips hunks of hair from their faces/legs/arms/hoo-hoos are not real. I mean, they can't be. Cyborgs. Androids. It's the only answer.
"Well Betty, it's a completely organic formula, 100% pain free of course. I see you're a bit of a sasquatch. Would you mind if I just placed this little fabric strip here on the goop that I spread on your upper lip? Okay. This won't hurt a bit. You just quickly remove it-"
And then she does, and you totally know that they edit out the screams of horror and pain, the aggravated and creative swearing:
"OWWWWW!!! Holy ass-fuck! SHIT! That hurt like a goddamn motherfucking bitch! You unholy terror! I will have you beheaded, skank!"
"Oh, Betty! Don't you feel nice and pretty and hairless now? Plus, you remember when I said it was organic? Well guess what that means! You can eat it!"
Yeah, that's fantastic, Princess Alexandria. I love edible torture. Yum. Now, if you wouldn't mind handing me back the top layer of my skin? I seem to be bleeding out.
You know that one episode of Friends where Ross and Rachel break up the first time? The whole "WE WERE ON A BREAK!" one? Right. Now remember the funny part of that episode? When Joey and Chandler are stuck in Rachel's room with Monica and Pheobe and they're making fun of the girls for saying their waxing methods are painful? So the girls convince Joey to put the body-sugaring stuff on his legs? And then they watch sadistically as Joey rips the strip off and screams like a little girl? Like a little girl in a lot of pain? Yeah. I laughed my ass off.
But I'm not predominantly a waxer. No, I'm sure the razor people are putting braces on their kids' teeth from all the crap I've purchased from them over the years. They've got some little racket going on, don't they?
First, there were the days when if you wanted to shave, you used soap, your hubby's razor, and a big, ol' box of band-aids. Then, there were the disposable razors. The pink, plastic bics. With daisies on 'em. Then, some genius decided that they could up the price of the razor if they included a tiny moisturizing strip. Which moisturizes for approximately one stroke of shaving. Then, there came the Sensor Excel. An ugly, flat razor with an "easy grip" handle and replaceable blades. I remember when blades for the sensor excel cost $4 for four blades. But then the O.K. Economy grocery store shut down and they built this humungoid Superstore Warehouse behind my house (ruining acres upon acres of perfect, unspoiled prairie, by the way) the razors were suddenly priced at $7 for four. Then, $8, no! Wait! $9! It was like I, personally, was paying for their new store with every purchase of new blades.
But apparently, I didn't buy enough because they started marketing new Sensor Excel handles. Now with 98% more sparkles! Yay! I don't know about you, but when I'm perched on the edge of the bathtub with my pear-smelling, shaving creme-covered leg arched half way up the wall, sweating as I smear said lotion everywhere, slicing the skin behind my knee just to make sure nobody sees three tiny hairs near that area, sometimes, I like to feel pretty. And I know of no better way to get that feeling than by purchasing a razor with sparkles in it. Who do sparkles appeal to? Ten year olds. There is no reason for ten year olds to be shaving their legs.
I didn't start shaving my legs until I was 14 years old. And I had dark leg hair, friends. I'd like to take a moment to thank all my German/Hungarian/dark-Irish relatives. Way to go mom! Thanks to you and your weak, red-haired genes, I have dark body hair. And blonde hair on my head. What is UP with that? I mean, I couldn't have nice, fine, red leg hair? I'd gladly trade freckles for hair. Gladly! Call me, we'll arrange an exchange. It's not too late!
Now where was I? Right. Razors. So eventually, I couldn't even find blades for my Sensor Excel. Coincidentally, not being able to find those blades coincided with the launch of the new Venus razor. COINCIDENTALLY. God. I resisted buying a new razor for months. Thankfully, those were winter months. And I could hide my hairy shame with pants. But now that summer appears to be upon us, I've had to cave and get the Venus. And okay, it rules. Triple blades, big handle, convenient shower storage. Awesome. However, it costs $12 for 4 blades. Damn. Looks like Mr. Gillette's kids will be making an extra trip to the dentist to have gold teeth put in.
And thanks to the Gillette marketing juggernaut, I can now express my femininity by purchasing a razor in pink! Cuz that's what goddesses do. The blades do last quite a lot longer. But still. I hate that the man is making me shave!
And now, there's the razor with a built-in foam dispenser. I don't have this one. I like to think I'm smart enough to actually smear shaving creme on my legs by myself. I love the commercials for the, what is it? Intuition? I think so. All these women keep dropping their razors, sliding around their bathrooms, spraying themselves with shaving creme. Like, HELLO! I'll admit that it's a nifty product, but do you really have to market it like "Ladies, are you an idiot? Do you need everything done for you?" I especially love the woman who sprays herself in the face with shaving creme. She DESERVED to be sprayed with shaving creme! Does she need directions to operate a pressurized canister? It's just like firing a gun. Point nozzle/barrel away from face! God!
Earlier this month, I bought a home waxing kit. Because when you pull the hair out by it's tenacious little root, it temporarily cries 'uncle!' and grows in light and fine. After one afternoon of co-opting the bathroom, a tumbler of Crown Royal on ice and several inquiries by my mother-
"Are you all right?"
"Ulp. Yes. I'm *AHHH! Oh my GOD!* fine!"
"Are...are you sure?"
"Actually, no. Can you come here and yank this strip off the back of my leg? I can't reach it."
"Oooh. Sorry kiddo. You're on your own. I don't inflict pain on my only daughter."
"Fine! Be that -ouch!owieowieowieowie!- way! I could really use a refill of whiskey."
-I was relatively hairless. Sort of. I mean, I was now covered in a very fine down. I was like a little baby chick. Except for the little part. The down was probably the roots of my leg hairs, pulled to the surface, all scared and trembling in the cold air. So I did the humane thing and shaved them off. And it was fantastic! My legs felt so smooth! They were completely hairless and lovely! And it lasted for quite some time! But now, only two weeks later, they're back to being hairy.
I've searched all over town for refills for the waxing thing and it appears that there are none. But I have to wait until my leg hair is long enough to attach to the wax anyway, so that's lovely. And I've expanded my leg-hair grooming party pack to include a big bottle of St. Ives Shave Reducing lotion. We'll see if these gnomes at St. Ives are really able to do what they claim to be able to do. Am I the only one who pictures gnomes or elves when I think of St. Ives? The swiss alps have given us many fine lotions. I'd just like to credit the proper faeries.
Mostly, I just wish I didn't have to deal with this. I mean, I don't care if my leg hair shows. I came to terms with the fact that I am hairy long ago. Society is the one with the problem. Why should I change? It's the one that sucks.
Of course, society won't change. Cause society is a no-talent ass clown. So I have to reconsider my options. And they are thus:
1. Shave my legs every other day.
2. Wax my legs every two weeks.
3. A gross, but necessary, double amputation.
Of course, should I opt for number three, I'm sure the Gillette corporation has a lovely pink scalpel that I could use. Or perhaps a bonesaw with a convenient rubber-grip handle. If it had sparkles on it, I'd totally get one.
Actually, this whole entry gives me a great idea for a short story about super heros and their personal grooming habits. Like, do you think Superman waxes his chest? Would Wolverine just hang around and snark on all the pretty boys while opening beers with his arm hair? I don't think Wonder Woman would put up with this shaving of the legs every two days shit, do you? No. What I need to do is become a super-hero.
Good thing I've hit upon a practical solution to my hair problems.
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