I never knew I’d grow up and have to shave my thighs. In the filmstrip they showed us in 6th grade about “becoming a woman,” they talked about sanitary napkins and ovulation and changes in our body, but never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined that hairy thighs would be a mainstay in my future.
My body is a forest of wiry hairs that I’m responsible for. And you know what? I don’t want the job. I’m sick of monitoring my legs, my armpits, my sideburns and my chin. And I’m sick of monitoring people’s faces to see if they notice how neglectful I’ve been at tweezing, shaving, and preening. I’m a human haystack of stubble.
When does it end? Do I stop caring or does it stop growing? Which will be first?
I have hairy thighs. That’s what’s up, America.