The Evolution of My Relationship With Body Hair

I stopped shaving my legs, armpits, and vulva at nineteen. Up until then, the concept of grooming had been engraved into my brain by everyone from my eldest sister to the eighth grade bully. I had trained myself to cover all haircare bases: pay extra attention to your sharp joints (ankles, knees) when shaving your legs; if you have thin hair simply revisit the armpits biweekly; boys don’t like a bush. I had succumbed to the fatigue that emerged from summer upkeep— one spare pube spotted beneath my bathing suit and my reputation would crumble before my eyes. I had even confronted a classmate who confused my shirt lent for armpit hair. I really put him in his place. But then, somewhere at the intersection of laziness and my Gender Studies major, a new identity coalesced. 

Courtesy of Billie

My evolution was steady. I swapped my Intuition for a new companion that promised equity through consumerism: Billie. Sure, I couldn’t yet embrace anything longer than stubble; but I could explain the pink tax in detail and claim intimacy with a razor brand that “made the internet fuzzier” by featuring actual hair in their commercials. As I dove deeper into the historical timeline of American women’s body hair— Gilette’s marketing in the 20s, World War II’s stocking shortage, and the post 70s porn industry— the veil of misogyny melted away and I found myself canceling my waxing appointments. 

So, there I was in the same position as age twelve: learning how to tend to my hair. While my friends perused Bobbi Brown and the CVS beauty aisle, I was discovering Harriette’s Magic Carpet Cleaner (a personal favorite). There was something incredibly luxurious about conditioning my body hair, like candles and a bathtub. My routine expanded to body oil—my most regal products coming from Fur. What I admired about these brands was that they were not overly consumed by empowerment narratives (e.g. they avoided the atrociously gendered terms like “girlboss”). Don’t get me wrong, empowerment is fantastic; but its surplus commercialization can be just as tiring as regularly shaving. The common thread amongst these brands— and emerging companies like Sugardoh— is their emphasis on choice: remove hair or don’t, either way works. They strike a delicate balance of acceptance.

Through my exploration of body hair care products, and my ultimate decision to stop hair removal altogether, I realized that any tried and true body hair loyalist cannot and should not impose an end-all be-all mentality. I had decided to embrace my long hair (and the cis straight men who ogled at my armpits as if they were bare breasts) and could in tandem understand one’s decision to wax monthly.

Courtesy of Fur

“Ultimately, my relationship with the hair on my body has flipped the script on how I view myself. ”

Ultimately, my relationship with the hair on my body has flipped the script on how I view myself. No longer a delicate “lady” with a hairless newborn vulva, I feel more inclined to embrace the parts of my body that a seventh grade me had deemed unrefined. It’s why I have chosen tattoos for their design rather than any particular meaning to cover my arms; yes, I’m aware they’ll be on my skin forever and I’m okay with the imperfect line work. It’s why I say hello to my tummy in the mornings, because no amount of sit ups (that I don’t do anyway) will reverse genetics. It’s why I yell “I’M HOT” in my high waisted granny panties to my partner on a Tuesday night. In a way, I owe my bush a big thank you. It taught me how to be me.