Shave and a haircut, two bits

tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3651718894396184210.post-62972901204337670172008-05-01T14:38:00.006-06:002008-05-01T16:35:23.939-06:00Shave and a haircut, two bits The lovely Eve of <a href="http://adamswife.wordpress.com/2008/04/26/to-shave-or-not-to-shave-the-legs/">Adamswife's Weblog</a> made the hamster in my head start turning the wheel. She was discussing why women shave their legs. So I pondered, why do we? I remember the first time I shaved. I was in the 5th grade, and my parents were out of town. I didn't have permission to shave, but I wasn't sure that I needed permission. It was my body, after all. I remember seeing my mother or sister's razor and hoping with all my might that I could soon become hair-free. It seemed to mean that, girl, doo doo doo, you'll be a woman... soon. So, I shaved. Badly. My legs were nicked and cut and scraped and mangled. I was horrified. How could this possibly be sexy? What I didn't realize at the time was how to finesse the razor in certain directions, or that old razors with rusty parts are not meant for a delicate girl of 11 years. Eventually, I learned how to tame the razor. My legs certainly suffered during the trial period. And, we lived in San Antonio, so of course that meant that I attended school in shorts and had to show off my shower time battle scars. I'm sure the boys loooooved that. Many years later, I ordered the Epilady thing that yanks hairs out without mercy. I was in high school, and I watched my legs bleed and cry out from the unending buzz buzzz buzzzzzz of the torturous Epilady. My mother came in to watch. I looked up at her in agony and said, "Mom, I think I need to be drunk to do this." Sadly, she did not offer any booze for my misery. Now that I consider the question of why I scrape a sharp object against my body every time I shower, I realize that there are deep-seated reasons and some that are not so deep in the britches. I believe, and it pains me to say this as my inner feminist cries out, that I shave to please my man. There. I said it. It's true. I shave so that I do not scare Phil away at night with barbed wire and sticky burrs. Who wants to be intimate when they must mangle their parts with a cattle fence? On top of that, if I didn't shave, I have images of our collective long leg hairs entwining and becoming irreparably entangled. What a story to tell the grandchildren: let me tell you about the time your Grandpappy and me had to cut our legs apart. It took a pair of scissors, whiskey, and a hacksaw! Another reason I shave is because I absolutely cannot stand the feeling of hard, pointy leg hairs against jeans. Ugh! You could be telling me the most fascinating story of all mankind, and I'll still be sitting there, cursing at my leg hairs and scratching them through my pants. Alas, it is just as my mother told me after that first incident in the 5th grade: "Well, that's fine that you've done it, but be prepared to do it for the rest of your life now that you've started." Indeed, Mom. Indeed. It's much like that episode of "Seinfeld" when Jerry debated about shaving his chest. Kramer warned him that you can never go back, and the hair comes in at an alarming depth and quantity. Jerry didn't believe him, so Kramer popped open his shirt to show Jerry the evidence. THE HORROR! THE AGONY! CRUEL, CRUEL FATES! Perhaps one day I will join my braver sisters such as Julia Roberts. I will let my armpits go free and curly, scaring off little children and causing the paparazzi to vomit. I will let the hairs of my appendages grow and risk being banished from my own bed. I will put on a brave face whenever Amos' friends ask him, "Which one is your mother? The hairy one on the left or the one with the beard?" Or not. Alas, the rest of my body is following the way of my shaven parts. I find stray whiskers on my chin and upper lip. Sometimes, I consider plucking them out once again with that torturous device of yesteryear. But, as I sit here, I can hear its electrified call from its basement lair. Buzz buzzz buzzzzz. Like the telltale heart beneath the floorboards, the Epilady frightens me and pushes me toward the wet bar, where I can soak my facial whiskers in the warmth of a soothing brandy. Wait. Isn't that how that story ended? <div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/3651718894396184210-6297290120433767017?l=www.imaginarybinky.com'/></div>imaginary binkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17201098158165803056noreply@blogger.com25