Body Hair.

It was Halloween and I was sitting on the toilet in a Greek Goddess costume from Party City. I looked down at my hair clad legs and thought to myself, “A goddess shouldn’t have this fuzz.” I looked at my mom and told her I wanted to remove it. She must not have wanted me to adopt the age-old ritual of dragging a blade across my skin just yet, so she went out and bought me a bottle of Nair. I remember the sting that was quite literally burning my hair away. This first time, she only let me lather it up to the knee.

I graduated to the razor. My motions were far from delicate and I nicked myself occasionally. It was worth it. I confidently rocked my private school skirts because I had good gams that felt like a damn porpoise. And there’s no shame in loving that feeling.

However, beginning in my middle school years up until this summer, I have ceremonially sheared my armpits and legs nearly every time I step into the shower. And for the first time in my life, I’ve taken it into question why I personally uphold myself to that standard. If I was doing it for myself, a look or feeling that I enjoyed, then by all means. But I couldn’t confidently say that was the entire truth. I partially did it for men I was dating or to not make people around me uncomfortable. So, one day this summer, I let the simple stubble underneath my arms progress into something more. I couldn’t remember the last time I didn’t hack away at my body’s natural growth. And as weeks passed by, I gradually became more comfortable with it. I even felt sexy. This didn’t stop anyone from questioning my motives. “What kind of statement are you trying to make?” “Are you okay?” In return, I ask, why does my body hair have to act as a politically driven statement? Or be a reflection of my current emotional state? I was born with this fascinating ability to grow not only emotionally but physically, every single day. It’s a sign of life, not a protest.

What did I enjoy about having armpit hair? For starters, I didn’t hate the aesthetics of it. My hair almost took on the role of a fashion accessory. I won’t lie, the first couple times that I lifted my arms over my head to stretch or assemble a ponytail, I would do a double-take in the mirror upon seeing the foreign dark matter. But as weeks passed, my relationship with body hair changed. My favorite thing about armpit hair ended up being the sense of ownership. I felt in control. Whether I decided to keep it forever, or cut it the next day, that decision was entirely mine.

I find that the current social climate encourages women to adopt unique beauty routines. Women are inspired to play with vibrant eyeshadows and get experimental haircuts, but the ‘body hair conversation’ is still far too taboo for so many. Women with armpit hair are so easily cast into a role or identity singularly based off of an entirely natural premise.

If being freshly shaven every time you get out of the shower gives you the confidence to be the best version of yourself, keep doing you. But if there comes a day when you don’t feel like picking up a razor, and that day lasts for a while, the world won’t stop spinning.