‘Sharan, what the hell?’
My friend Julia’s* body twisted dramatically on her spa chair, as her widened eyes fell on my bare legs. ‘You didn’t shave your legs?!’
I looked around the salon – everyone immediately focused on my legs at her outburst, and I went bright red.
Gingerly, I tried to move my trouser legs down as the pedicurist leaned back slightly, to look at her colleague. Her eyes also widened as she looked away, and her face said it all: ‘What is happening?’
We were all in shock, but for different reasons.
This wasn’t the first time someone has been disgusted by my body hair but I’m used to it coming from men – not my friend and, more importantly, not another woman.
It was in lockdown that I decided to stop shaving. As a hairy woman with thick black hair, it was hard to keep up with the sharp shards as they penetrated my skin merely minutes after a fresh shave.
But when I say hairy, I don’t just mean legs and armpits: I have thick hair everywhere, and I would attempt to remove it from… everywhere. When I was young, I hated it. It made me feel ugly and abnormal – I thought there was something wrong with me.
As I got older I grew to love it as I watched it grow on me, and began to take longer spells in-between shaving sessions.
I rarely shaved my legs, unless I was in a relationship or dating. Still, I would always bring a razor to my armpits as they were more readily visible.
But it was during lockdown, when I didn’t have to groom for other people, that I realised that there was nothing wrong with my hair. And with that, I realised a big part of my decision to grow my body hair out was as a f**k you to the male gaze.
I was tired. Tired of men who never fail to make comments about how women look, as if their opinion is the only one that matters. As if women, myself included, were created just to look good to them.
I hated it, because I wasn’t made for that standard – my hair is too thick, too frequent, too plentiful. My body changes through bloating, cravings, injuries.
But, I eventually wondered why their opinion mattered so much.
I, and most women, do not fit the beauty standard that men want us to adhere to. So, screw it, I thought. I just won’t.
That’s when they filled my comment sections with throwing up emojis, razors or unsolicited sexual fetish comments. It filled me with more determination to live my life as I wanted.
But while men didn’t understand, I hoped women would.
So when I took Julia for a pedicure in London, so we could gossip about her dating life, I didn’t expect her to react the way she did when I turned up hairy. In fact, I didn’t think about how she would react – I was just going about my day existing as I do everyday, and thought nothing of it.
That was until I rolled up my trousers. I was actually concentrating on my awful, cracked toenail varnish, and hadn’t considered my leg hair, until she exclaimed so dramatically.
The shame I felt echoed through my body and my hairs all stood up, as if to make themselves more visible.
But I realised I was also feeling her shame. She had been told for so long that she had to reach a certain standard, so she was shocked that someone could exist outside of that.
Her outrage wasn’t at my hair, but at my audacity – how could I possibly stand up to patriarchal archetypes and be happy? Why had no one burned me at the stake? Or banished me?
My shock vanished mere seconds later, and we all laughed – Julia, the pedicurist and I nervously chuckled at the outburst. Others in the salon turned round and continued chatting to their nail technicians.
‘God, Julia, you should see my ass if this bothers you,’ I fired back jokingly.
I dissipated the tension with levity, but I wished I didn’t have to.
In fact, while giggling, my pedicurist rolled up her trousers and pointed at her leg hair. We smiled and nodded at each other, communicating a loud ‘who cares’ from our eyes.
Julia continued with her dating nightmares, and I nodded along, asked relevant questions, showed adequate disbelief – until we left.
‘Julia, that was not OK,’ I said outside the shop. She knew immediately what I was talking about, but she acted aloof at first. She needed it spelled out, and I recognised guilt on her face. That’s when she apologised and we talked.
We walked towards the bus stop together and spent that time doing what I wish someone had done with her a long time ago – I told her she was beautiful.
I told her we were beautiful no matter how much, or little, hair we have. Or how our bellies look. Or our noses, skin, wrinkles, arms, legs – everything that has been put under a microscope is beautiful, even when it’s examined.
I told her it didn’t matter what men say, because they aren’t as important as society has convinced us. I have spent my whole life hairy and whether I remove it or not, I’m living my best life.
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Men will always comment, but I’m not made for them.
I wasn’t angry at her, I realised. She was conditioned to mock my hair, until she heard that letting it grow is completely fine. It was the beginning of her journey to unlearn the toxic masculinity that influenced her to yell in disgust when she saw my hair.
While she will continue to remove body hair, she assured me that next time, her reaction will no longer be of shame, but of solidarity.
*Name has been changed
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