An ode to my leg hair (or why I don't shave my legs anymore)

I don't shave my legs anymore. Here's why:

When I started going to public school in the fifth grade, I had to take the bus. And because I lived so far out of town, my bus ride was filled with various ages and grades. While this made sense to the Owasso Public School District in the late 2000s, anyone with a brain knows this is ripe territory for bullying.

You could say I was a sensitive kid who cried often. Embarrassed by my frequent public crying, I tried to save my tears for when I got home. This was before the mental health conversations and the feelings revolution that occurred on a mainstream level in my early twenties. We were in a post 9/11 time that revelled in being tough! But I had absolutely no grit. I would come home from school and tell my mom about my classmates being mean. Her response was, “YOU NEED TO GROW A BACKBONE!”

While she was correct, I also longed to be validated and loved for the sweet little soul that inspired these feelings that originated from somewhere deep within my belly. I didn’t want to be so emotional but even at my ripe age of ten, I knew it was just something that came naturally.

There was a specific instance that really informed how I saw myself.

It was a warm and sunny afternoon and by the time the bus picked me up, there was only room towards the back. This is where the older kids sat and I was terrified to be so close to actual teenagers. I’m sure they could smell the fear on me which made me the perfect target for this weekday ride home. Soon, a middle school boy had found the perfect detail about me to use in his taunting: my arm hair. He used such little creativity as he uttered the name ‘Chewbacca’. As he giggled, he started telling the boy sitting next to him and soon the joke spread like a California wildfire. And that is what I became known as for the next couple of years that I took that bus to and from school.

Thankfully, my house was one of the first stops in the queue. I ran inside and told my mom about what happened on the trip home. Instead of giving me that sweet, sweet validation that my little hairy preteen body was perfectly fine just the way it was, my mom introduced me to a little product called Nair. She said it was time to start my hair removal journey.

Now that I’m older, I can look back at my mom’s decision and understand her logic. She was presented a problem and she responded with a solution. But my entire childhood can be summed up by my longing to just be loved for who I was: the hairy and overly emotional weird little girl with the raspberry-colored metal rimmed glasses that didn’t quite fit her face. I was awkward and loved to talk more than most children and in the 4th grade, I was so in love with dogs that I decided to write my own language in an attempt to communicate with them.

a ‘vintage’ ad for Nair hair removal

But at the time, I was conflicted. Would this hair removal rite of passage usher me into an era where all the nerdy quirks that often led to others laughing at me would start to disappear? Would I become one of the popular girls at school with icy highlights who wore Abercrombie and had hip hop ringtones on their bejeweled flip phones? Little ten year old me could only dream of being so damn cool.

This moment might seem so subtle, so microscopic in the big scheme of existence, but it is the root of my insecurity around my body hair.

obsessed with perfection

As I got older, I thought endlessly about being hairless. I wanted to be a naked mole rat. I envied girls who had little or no hair on their arms and legs. The pure jealousy that developed when I met a fellow sixteen year old who grew no hair on her limbs! God really must have loved her!

My obsession only grew as people around me started letting others touch them sexually. I earned a reputation as a teenage tease because I was down to hardcore make out but the moment a hand started to touch around my bikini line, I would abort the mission. Why? I was afraid I was too hairy, even though I would shave everything away.

The turning point was when I started dating Anthony: the person I ended up marrying. When I was in my early twenties, I stopped shaving my legs every winter. Maybe the inspiration was No Shave November (if men can stop shaving, why can’t I!) or maybe it was the fact I was too cold in our little Brooklyn apartment to be naked longer than necessary when I could be wrapped up in the fuzziest pajamas? Either way, it was nice to stop shaving for a period each year. I would joke that it was my “winter fur!” And the best part? My boyfriend didn’t care. Sure, we both enjoy the initial feeling of freshly shaved legs. BUT THAT LASTS FOR 2.56 MINUTES! Especially with my legs.

Now, some people don’t shave their legs and it can take weeks or months to grow fully back. Or maybe they have fine, blonde little hairs that live all over their lower body. Not me. In about three days, I can grow back a full forest that inspires envy in thirteen year old boys that have yet to reach their full manhood. Not only is my leg hair dark: I have two or three thick strands in each pore.

That’s why when I decided earlier in 2024 to stop shaving my legs year-round, some thought this choice was a political one. That couldn’t be further from my reason. I’m reclaiming the autonomy to my body while also validating who I am.

a fully modern woman with leg hair

I haven’t done a ton of research on the history of body hair removal but you don’t have to look into the facts to see that the double standard that exists depending on gender is the main reason why so many women or femme-presenting people are encouraged to shave their legs. Men get to walk around with their leg fur out on display ALL THE TIME. In fact, I would be willing to bet that a majority of cisgendered men never really think about their leg hair. They just exist. And that’s what I want to do: just exist.

I recently began to talk about this choice when performing comedy. I’ve labeled this specific time of my life (and time of my grief since my mom’s death in 2022) as second puberty. My definition of second puberty is doing all the things you weren’t allowed to do when your dead parent was alive. Here’s the three things I’ve been embracing since my mom’s passing:

1. I’ve been listening to My Chemical Romance.

2. I’ve embraced my queerness.

3. I stopped shaving my legs.

Lemme explain

Why My Chemical Romance? They weren’t allowed in my household. While other kids found their music cathartic for that post 9/11 cynicism, my mom said, “BOYS AREN’T SUPPOSED TO WEAR EYELINER!” Now you can catch me driving around in my car, screaming the lyrics to “Welcome to the Black Parade” on any given day.

As for the second and third things I listed, they go together.

I’ve known about my queerness for a while. I came out as bisexual in 2016. But I never officially came out to my mother. My mom was never big on gay stuff. And I have mommy issues. So, the conversation was never top priority for me. This is partly because I was afraid of her rejecting me and partly because once I got into a serious relationship with a guy, I didn’t know how she would be able to handle the nuance of being queer and in a straight relationship.

Hanging around the femme community in New York was where I was introduced to this idea that body hair was sexy. No one had ever uttered anything like that to me but that all shifted after I saw some of the most attractive people with the bushiest body hair.

This isn’t to say I’m not still insecure about going out in public with my hairy legs on display. I feel as if I have to ‘come out’ as a non-shaver to my friends, especially if we are going somewhere like the beach or the creek. I don’t want to take anyone by surprise but I also don’t want to feel ashamed of my natural body.

So here is an ode to my leg hair that fully embraces the complicated yet beautiful feelings that exist in my inner being regarding my fur:

An ode to my leg hair

What softness! What beauty!
I love the fur that lines my legs.
Sure, our relationship wasn’t always so sweet.
But there is something so incredible!
SO LUXOURIOUS!
When the ocean water dances with the strands below my knee.

She has empowered me in ways I didn’t know possible like
When I’m wearing a dress and a full face of makeup and
Some average, ugly ass man starts to check me out.
It always happens the same: I catch his eyes.
They are like television screens, displaying the dirty thoughts that can
Only originate in the mind of a nasty dude.
He makes his way from my face to my shoulders to my navel.
He expects the grand finale is going to be some
Idealized, infantile version of my feminine body.
The disappointment!
THE DISGUST!
That washes over his face as his eyes reach my legs!
My leg hair has once again reclaimed my autonomy.

What softness! What beauty!
I love the fur that lines my legs.

a picture by JT Anderson at a recent show where I showed the audience my leg hair. They irrupted in applause.