Shaving, and the grand scheme of things (Part II)

I still haven't shaved my legs. I actually went on public transport this morning dressed to go to straight to the gym, which meant two trains and and a tube with my hairy pins on show. I'm struck by the pressure and obligation I feel to minimise offending hairs on my legs, and under my arms (and even my bikini line).

When did it become normal for women to strive for fuzz free figures? When did the first glimmer of summer sun become the onset of depilatory season? (Not to mention bronzing season, and -of course- bikini body diet season).

I can recall when I went with my sister to take a tour of one of the Oxford colleges and I thought the girl who was taking us round was wearing leggings. She wasn't. A mixture of admiration and disgust sat inside me when I realised what I was seeing were her unshaved, unwaxed legs.

I have been thinking about this hair situation for the last week because I've been mulling over what life in shorts will be like in Australia, and because Boots have launched a new hair minimising product called Inhibitif.

I've read the instructions and essentially twice a day you spray your legs with this stuff whilst continuing to shave or wax when necessary. And after a month or two you can reduce your spray sessions to once every other day.

The billboard adverts for Inhibitif that adorn the walls outside Westfield ask the viewer if they are a shave slave.

Offering Inhibitif as an alternative to being a shave slave only makes you a slave to Inhibitif surely?

Who seriously has the time to ensure they reach these insanely high beauty standards set by the media, by society, and by women and men alike? A colleague of mine said he could never date a woman who didn't shave. But why don't women say they would only date a man who shaves? Why is hair the norm for men, and the enemy for women? These are the kinds of things we see as standard, a traditional for men and women. These traditions haven't always been the norm. These are learned behaviours. These are the traditions that we need to be questioning.

Seriously who has the time to spray their legs twice a day? I can just about fit in (and remember) to wash my face. I am learning how to fit in gym sessions and yoga workouts around a 6-day 50-hour working week. I am still yet to build in time for meditation and relaxation. I certainly don't need yet another standard to reach towards that I don't have time for.

In the 10 (optimistic) minutes that it takes to shave, I could learn how to buy my groceries in French. I could read an article on politics. Hell I could even clean the bath and the toilet. Our time is precious, our lives are short, and we should not be wasting them being a slave not to shaving, not to even Inhibitif, but being a slave to unhelpful, sometimes hurtful, and just downright impractical beauty standards.

So despite every fibre of my being screaming at me to shave my fuzzy pins before it's declared a national forest, I'm not going to. Because I want to learn French and read about politics. And my bathroom really needs a clean.

U.G.L.Y

U.G.L.Y

I look at myself and wish I wasn't so ugly.

And I wish my thighs weren't so fat, and my skin and teeth were better, and that my blonde hair would grow beyond the length it is now, and would be blonder too. Or glossier. 

And it is not very often I stop myself and wonder why I think that I'm ugly.

Has anyone ever told me I'm ugly?

Once, a boy I fancied told another boy I had gotten hot. The other boy, still a dear friend, said "she was never ugly". To which the boy I fancied was like "hmmm she was average". Or something like that. The exact words escape me 8 years down the line, but he was basically saying I definitely wasn't always hot. 

So let's get this straight shall we? I wasn't hot, and I wasn't ugly, I was just "average". So, that means there are three types of women does it? 

No.

There is one kind: Beautiful.

And there are billions of kinds: unique individuals.

No woman is the same. Yes we all have the same kind of chromosomes that means our bits are inside down below and outside up above. 

We have some peculiar contraption called a womb sitting inside us waiting for a short-lease resident. Or two. Or many.

I don't think I'm ugly because this one boy I fancied told me I was ugly. This week a guy told me I was pretty, gorgeous and sexy. Another guy told me I was beautiful and looked lush. Dressed in tshirt and jeans. Even today I caught the attention of a chef at a cafe, and I was wearing baggy jeans and oversized coat. Eh? This must all mean I'm good looking right?

But my brain- the same brain I use to succeed at work with, the same brain I use to read classic novels, do arithmetic and process daily information about people and places - that brain tells me that I am ugly. That I am disgusting and pathetic. It tells me I'm fat, unattractive, and unloveable. 

And it tells me that because it has been programmed to tell me that.

By tv. By films. By magazines. By the media. 

I am told that in order to be successful as a woman, I must also be beautiful. I must have a fantastic figure, I must dress according to societal norms (bit of cleavage maybe, and using a pencil skirt to accentuate my curves and make the most of my short frame. I can't dress too sexily because that would undermine my professionalism, and if I dress too straight-laced then I'll probably be called a hard-nosed bitch.) I must be funny and smart (but not funnier or smarter than my prospective mate because that could put them off).

I must be so many things. Women must be so many things. And they especially should not be ugly. Nuh uh. 

I need to re-educate myself. Re-educate my brain. I try and I try and I feel like I'm getting somewhere and then I'll feel worse again and I'll hate my face and my body and everything. 

This evening is a perfect example. This morning I got eyeballed by a bloke, and when someone else told me I looked hot when I sent a picture of myself in tshirt and jeans. A tshirt, fully covering my breasticles, and massive baggy jeans, covering any seductive curves.

But getting ready for a Halloween party, I feel bad or like I will fail at fitting in because I haven't got one of those stereotypically sexy outfits for women.

If you think I'm just going on the Halloween party from Mean Girls, the check out this Tumblr - http://fucknosexisthalloweencostumes.tumblr.com/ 

I must have it kind of going on, but I am fed all these bullshit mages about what I should be, that I can't seem to stop and appreciate what I am.

I hate it. It needs to stop. Not just for me, but for all other women my age, older than I am and definitely younger than I am.

Sometimes I consider having a child just to bring them up to understand the bullshit of the media and help them evolve beyond it.

Then I remember that would mean having a child, and I decide to help my cat through her insecurity problems brought on by those Felix adverts.

And I am not completely immune to the sexy Halloween stereotype btw- I'm wearing shorts and fishnet tights. I am, however, a roller derby girl off the track :p