This post is sponsored by Dove® ClearTone™ Deodorant - designed to visibly reduce underarm dark marks and even skin tone.
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| My legs weren't this hairy, but they certainly seemed that way! Image courtesy of: Off Track Planet |
I'll never forget the first time the first time I realized that I didn't belong: I was fifteen and on a bus in Mexico on my way to a roller skating rink with my sister and cousins. My capris gave the bus passengers a three-inch peek to my very hairy legs.
The well-coiffed ladies on the bus (hey, this was in Guadalajara, Mexico!), made it pretty obvious that my hairy legs were all together disgusting...and a reason "not to leave the house."
My cousins and younger sister, were also, well, hairy...but we never seemed bothered by it...until then.
Shaving was out of the question. The moment we did, according to our parents, "we would loose our innocence" and enter the scary stage of "adulthood." Something, that according to our parents, "we wanted to postpone as long as possible."
Stepping out of that bus was also stepping out of that childhood innocence. Instead of giggling like the normal teenagers we were, my cousins, sister and I, suddenly became obsessed with the fact that "we weren't normal." We were "hairy," and somehow "shouldn't leave the house."
I don't know who asked first, but we all eventually asked our parents if we could "please shave our legs"...only to receive a resounding NO to our teenage pleads.
Being the teenager I was, I eventually creeped into my fathers shaving kit and found a razor. I waited until I could shower in peace and began to run the razor up-and-down my calves...while watching my leg fuzz being washed down the drain.
Eventually, my clumsy attempt at shaving resulted in cuts and nicks in more places than I could count...while the warm shower water only seemed to aggravate the bleeding.
Once I was done with my first experience shaving my legs, I ran to my room, closed the door to admire a badly cut pair of hair-free legs!
It was liberating!
I no longer had "disgusting" legs. But, my parents were right: it was at that moment in time that my worry-free life as a girl would now be replaced by the beauty worries of a woman.
Ain't life grand?!
I was compensated for this post as a member of Clever Girls Collective. All the opinions expressed here are my own.
I sat next to my daddy on Sundays. He read the paper, and I looked at the comic's while he idly pulled the hair on my legs. It was an affectionate stroke, not aggressive, absent minded. Ed, the good-looking boy who sat in front of me in 9th grade history class, reached behind to my calves to do the same thing. Only he seemed more focused. All the girls, except for me, shaved their legs so I "borrowed" my stepmother's razor and eradicated the fur one day. Ed reached behind as usual, and turned to look at me, open-mouthed. I smiled, smug. My father was another matter. He looked at me, also open-mouthed, but his expression wasn't shocked, but sad.
ReplyDeleteOnce we cross this stage, there is no going back. Thank you for sharing your story Sandra...it was beautiful!
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