Hair

Yes I have a midterm tomorrow. Yes I'm going to write a blog post instead of going to sleep right away. What of it?

(Actually, I had a serious heart-to-heart with myself on the way back from my internship. I asked myself, "Self, if you were to die right now, which would you rather leave behind - good test scores or good/ok blog posts?" And deep inside my heart, I knew I would rather leave blog posts. Too bad I'm conditioned to prioritize school above all else. Stupid mind.)

Here's what I didn't do all semester so far: shave my leg hair. Here's what I learned: I don't actually grow leg hair. What have I been doing all this time?! Shaving tiny blonde hairs almost as thin as the ones on my arm. And the ones on my arm are pretty much invisible. And the back of my legs? Absolutely no hair at all. I've been mindlessly going through motions of hygiene that don't apply to me. It's like I've spent seven years mowing plastic grass.

Ok, maybe it's not that drastic. I do have some hair, and since I'm so used to the hairless feel I might shave them again come summertime, just because I don't like them rustling in the wind. Just because you can't see them doesn't mean I can't feel them. But it does make me wonder, how did I ever end up shaving them in the first place? Certainly not because there was any physical indication there was something to be shaved.

And I certainly wasn't the one who decided to start. I fought puberty with a vengeance. My mother had to beg me to wear a bra (a bra I still own and wear. Limited Too sure built things to last. And yes, I'm the same size I was back then. My breasts grew in one great leap, so I got all the mortification of an early bloomer with larger breasts than any of the other girls in the sixth grade and then the mortification of being a small-chested adult. Whatever man. 36B's for the win!) When I first got my period, I howled so loud my mother came running in alarm. She tried to congratulate me as I lamented the loss of my youth. I was fully aware these signs of puberty - breasts, periods, new hair - meant I was leaving a place to which I could never return. And I clung to my residual youth. I played Barbies through seventh grade (albeit their adventures got increasingly murder-centric) and I'm pretty sure I spent my ninth grade year acting like a toddler. Just ask anybody from the theater department of Centreville High circa 2008.

And underarm hair was no exception. I was sure the minute I shaved my pits, my youth was gone forever. I spent days in sixth grade with my arms clenched to my sides, not wanting anyone to notice my new hair but not wanting to go through the aging ritual of actually shaving them. Then, one day, my mother said, "Hey, Alison, do you want me to show you how to shave your underarms now?" She had suggested this delicately a few times before, but I had always emphatically resisted. However, since clenching my arms was very uncomfortable, and because raising my hand had become virtually impossible (and, since I was also just learning how to use deodorant and experimenting with different brands, sometimes the smell was unpleasant. Sixth grade was a very awkward time for me) I said, "Ok."

And we went into her bathroom, and she showed me the razor. It was a svelte, curvy, pretty thing, that razor. Somehow less threatening than I imagined. Then, she showed me how to use shaving cream (a practice I later deserted) and shave. And I lost nothing. Nothing but hair. I didn't jolt into adulthood or lose my childhood innocence. I was still me - but now I no longer feared being called up to the blackboard. So I imagine that, about that time, my mother said, "Do you want me to show you how to shave your legs too, while we're at it?" And I figure I said, since I now knew I had nothing to lose, "Ok."

And I guess I just started. Weird.