What I Learned From No Shave November
I shaved my legs for the first time in 5th grade. I remember the excitement of finally being old - no, mature - enough to partake in womanly activities. I couldn’t wait to get my period, to wear a bra, to do facemasks with my girlfriends and discuss important things like boyfriends. I had always been a tomboy; rolling in the dirt, climbing trees, coming home with pockets full of rocks and fingernails caked in mud. But as I matured to the wisened age of 11, I began to realize that the girls the boys liked (like, like liked) weren’t the ones with grass-stained knees; they were the ones who brushed their hair and cared about what they looked like. The solution was simple: I like boys, boys like women, and women look and act and are a certain way. I had it all figured out at 11 years old.
So there I was, sitting on the edge of my parent’s bathtub as my mom walked me through the basic ins and outs of bald-leg maintenance. “Make sure you’re careful around your knees, it’s easy to get cut there,” she advised. “And your ankles. And your shins. And above the heel.”
“Are there any easy places to shave?” I asked. She just laughed.
The lesson continued, with minimal blood and maximum sass (I can only assume).
“Make sure you’re not using dull blades,” my mom said.
“How often do I need to change them?” I asked.
“About every other time you shave.”
“Okay, so every other day.”
...she just laughed.
As it did with my period, bra-wearing, and most other “womanly activities,” the appeal of shaving quickly died. In fact, it is absolutely my least favorite portion of personal hygiene. The nicks, the razor bumps, the awkward shower acrobatics to get every last inch of skin, the rogue hair (or strip) that was inevitably missed. Don’t even get me started on the pink tax. Still, I’ve never been one to intentionally grow out my body hair. I’ve always respected the women who would push back on societal expectations by flaunting their fuzz, but I still could never get myself to go au naturel. As a yoga instructor, my shins and underarms are on year-round display, and even though I’ve never given much thought or time to my outward appearance, I’d find myself feeling self-conscious if I’d let myself get a little too Jane of the Jungle.
Herein lies the paradox: I don’t care enough to shave daily, but there is some degree of expectation as a woman to keep your skin silky smooth and hair-free. Depending on who you are, that expectation might shift a little (for example, being a proud member of the crunchy-granola mountain folk community, I feel some degree of societal liberty to let my hair grow out). And yet, despite my personal beliefs on shaving, I still feel deeply impacted by the stigmas that I first began to notice before I even hit puberty: To be a woman, you must dress or behave or present yourself in a particular way.
So when I realized on November 4 that I hadn’t shaved since Halloween, it seemed like the perfect opportunity for a personal experiment: finally participating in No Shave November.
It began innocuously; in fact, I kind of forgot about it for a while after declaring my experiment to myself. About halfway through the month, I realized how much better my underarms felt. No burning from shaving, no prickly little hairs on the in-between days, no tiny red bumps; my skin had never felt better. Plus, less skin irritation meant less sweat, and less sweat meant less stink. A true win-win.
I also realized around this time that my attitude about my natural approach had changed. There had been times before where I’d unintentionally let my underarm hair get longer than normal for me that I’d been much more uncomfortable with it. At those times, my hair wasn’t even as long as it was now. What had suddenly shifted that made me okay with these voluptuous body locks? It’s simple: intention.
The intention makes all the difference. Before, I saw my body hair as a reminder of my own personal shortcomings. At its best, it was a reminder that I don’t fit in what a woman should be, because I don’t care enough to keep up with the desired dolphin-skin aesthetic. At its worst, it was a visual indicator of my apathy, a favorite symptom of my depression. Who cares if I shave today? It’s a miracle I even got out of bed. No need to shave if I won’t be leaving my house for days.
Now, it was a choice I was making rather than the absence of one. I knew I had made the decision to let my hair grow out, so I didn’t feel ashamed by it. But here’s the funny part: no one even knew I was doing this. I hadn’t declared this hairy goal to anyone else, just myself. Nothing in my environment had changed, but the way I saw myself had. Sure, I had a few moments of self-judgement, but overall, simply knowing my truth and my reasoning was enough to combat whatever stories my monkey mind could whip up about what others thought about me. (Y’all, is it just me, or is the therapy working?)
So the moral of the story? Shave your armpits, or don’t. Let your leg hair grow until it’s nice and soft, or don’t. Wax your body from head to toe, or maintain a magnificent trim, or shave your legs but nowhere else, or don’t. Just don’t make decisions about your body for anyone other than yourself. You don’t need to compromise your personal comfort for others’ opinions. Will I stick with the all natural approach? Maybe. It’s not a lifelong commitment; it’s just body hair. For now, it’s been a much needed reminder that my worth as a human isn’t defined by the length of my armpit hair. And that feels like a damn good place to start.
