A Month of Shame

Hi, my name is Dani, and I'm disgusting.

I've had a sneaking suspicion for a while about my disgustingness, but I finally rowed my ass out of the River of Denial and let reality kiss me full on the lips.


And now I know for sure:

I. Am. Disgusting.

It started out simply enough... I have nowhere to go, for the most part, winter is arriving and wearing shorts is pretty much out of the question, and if I ever need to don a dress and show some leg, I'm pretty sure I'll have a few days notice.

So I got super lazy about shaving my legs.

(The following is TMI... you may want to stop reading right about... NOW.)

Since my legs are covered like 100% of the time, it got realllll easy to not notice the prickly stubble growing in patches here and there along my calves.  

Showering and drying off were pretty much the only instances in which I said, "Ewwww..." and thought that perhaps I should do something about it.

Thoughts are fleeting.

Slowly but surely, the stubble turned in to full blown hair.  I'm not a hairy girl, despite my ancestry (and my mother, aka Ape Woman) so it's not like I was King Kong from the knees down, but still.  Had my house caught fire in the middle of the night while I was sleeping and during my escape I had somehow lost my pants, eyes would have been drawn to my leg hair.  Subtle glances would have become awkward stares.  People would have talked.  I would have been self-conscious and embarrassed about the condition of my calves. 

Has anyone seen my pants?

Meanwhile, as grossed out as I was by my slothfulness, I was also slightly fascinated by the growth of hair.  It became something of a science experiment.

Why, for instance, did hair grow in some places and not in others?  Why is my leg hair patchy?  Why are the strands on the backs of my legs longer than the strands on the front?  

And finally, how long would the hair get if I just never shaved it again?  Would it continue to grow indefinitely, until it was sweeping the floor like a Yorkshire terrier?  Would I receive Best In Show?  Or would it reach a point where it just... stopped?  And then what?  

I'm too sexy for my leg hair.

As I am (still) unemployed, I really had nothing better to do than monitor the growth of my leg hair.

It made me feel slightly productive.  Like I was contributing something to science.

And then, last night, this happened:

Not really me... but totally could be.

Me:  *absent mindedly scratching my calf*

Dan:  *suddenly, after a month, noticing that something was slightly amiss*  "What's all over your leg?"

Me:  "Huh?"

Dan:  *eyes widening*  "Is that... hair?"

Me:

Dan:  *staring rudely*

Me:  "Ummm..."

Dan:  "Is that hair??"

Me:  "Maybe..."

Dan:  "How long has it been since you've shaved your legs??"

Me:  "Uhhh... I dunno, maybe a week?"  

(I am SUCH a liar.)

Dan:  *incredulously*  "A WEEK?"

Me:  "Ummm..."

Dan:  "I will pay you to shave that shit off."


I have been unemployed for 7 months... I would shave my freaking head for cash.

So today, the leg hair is gone.  Shaving it off was even grosser than growing it, in case you were wondering.  

Amen, Sista!

Leg Hair 101

(*Author's note:  TMI, but whatever.  Apparently, after 3 months of unemployment, I have no shame.)


Back in the day, before I was broke and unemployed, I was a fanatical daily leg-shaver.  Didn't matter if I was going to be wearing long pants, knee socks and boots... the legs, they were smooooov.  It was a matter of pride and principle.  Considering how often I fall down, the risk of breaking my ankle or foot is a constant threat, so if I wound up on a stretcher with hard bodied paramedics cutting my jeans off, they would not find King Kong under there.  (Priorities, y'all.  Our mothers insisted on clean underwear, I insist on a tidy brazillion with cleanly shaved legs.)


About a year ago, my friend Wendy and I went to a woman's retreat.  She was there to do waxing and facials and I was there to do massage. When we first arrived, we all went out to do yoga together and to what to our wondering eyes should appear but 20 women who had never owned a razor.  


Never.  Owned.  A RAZOR.


There was leg hair up the wazoo.  There was wazoo hair up the ying yang.  Don't even get me started on the pit hair, the sideburns, and the lack of interest in deodorant.  As nipped, tucked, enhanced, augmented, waxed, primped, and pruned relatively shallow girly-girls, this was definitely our first rodeo.


We went in with hot wax steaming.  These women lined up like it was their last meal and let Wendy rip all of their excess body hair from every crack and crevice while I massaged their hairy legs as they waited for their turn.  


Pluses:  We made bank.  Also?  I have the memory of one woman screaming, "My labia!  My labia! Don't rip off my labia!" while Wendy gave her a bikini wax forever burned into my brain.  (Seriously... fucking hilarious.  Every once in a while I have to fight back the urge to randomly scream, "My labia!  My labia!")


Negatives:  I had to touch a lottttttttt of hairy, undeodorized bodies and naked, saggy boobies, yo.  Because these girls?  Did. Not. Care.  And since we were sharing a room for our spa services, I had an up-close and personal view of all the waxing while Wendy was treated to all the total nudity of my massage victims.  (Me:  "Can I give you some privacy to get ready for your massage?"  Hippy Women, one and all:  "For what?" as they dropped trow and plopped down nekkid on the massage table.)  


But I really can't complain because while I did have to touch hairy women, Wendy is the one who had to rip out their pubes, and her up-close and personal was wayyyyyyyyy more up-close and personal than MY view.  Nuff said.


(Sorry for throwing you under the bus there, Wendy.)


Anyway, here I am one year later, unemployed and suddenly unconcerned about what's going on with my leg hair.  I'm not wildly hairy, thanks to my father's Native American roots (I was going to say Indian but I'm nothing if not PC, yo) but I'm not a platinum blonde Swede, either.  So after much studying and some trial and error, I have determined that I can go 4 days without shaving my legs.  


Day 1:  Smooth and moisturized!  Can wear shorts and flip flops in public.


Day 2:  Can feel but not see the stubble.  Still wearing shorts and flip flops.


Day 3:  Prickly and definitely not smooth... time to switch to Capris.


Day 4:  Definite leg hair, could probably sand the finish off of my coffee table, still in Capris but walking a fine line between middle-aged woman in Capris and disgusting hippy who thinks women should totally rock their leg hair.  If it wasn't so damn hot I'd definitely be rocking jeans, socks, and boots.  


If I suffer an injury, I'm screwed.  Paramedics would definitely be grossed out by disgusting leg hair.


Day 5:  Must shave legs because a) I'm grossing myself out and b) I refuse to leave the house until I do.


I still keep up with the pit hair because let's face it... pit hair is gross.  (I have my standards.)  


I had way less time to keep up with the hair removal when I was working but now that I'm unemployed and have alllll the time in the world, I don't feel like I can squeeze this in.  Go figure.


(I also am lately wayyyyy more inclined to stick a hat on my head than spend the 5 minutes it takes to do my hair.  Weird.)


I really need to find a job before I say "Fuck it all!" and grow a beard.  True, sad, story.