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Spring is a time of rebirth. To many of us mammals, birth is equated with smooth and naked. According to Sheep 101, sheep are sheared once a year, usually in the spring before the onset of warm weather. Like sheep, us human women who avoid shaving our hairy legs and arm pits during the winter because we claim that the minimal extra body hair helps keep us warmer in the cold winter months, find ourselves exposed. Spring and summer practically beg for skirts, shorts, and tank tops. It's harder to hide our woolliness. Thus to all but the least fashion-conscious feminists (of whose ranks I generally belong), spring is time to flock to the shearing, crack out our neglected razors, and de-fleece ourselves.
Of course, many (if not most) American women shave throughout the year, regardless of weather. Some have a personal dislike of body hair, whether on female or male bodies. Others feel less innately feminine when even a hint of stubble appears on an ankle. Razors geared toward women (i.e. - they have pink or purple handles, and in my opinion, lower quality blades than men's models) are advertised throughout the year on TV and in print, not just during the spring and summer. Salons offering all types of waxing seem to do a booming business year-round, even in cold climates. I love the winter because I can easily ignore all of this, hiding my hairy gams and sprouting arm pits under wool pants and think sweaters. Spring and summers offer challenges, though: do I shirk propriety and walk around in my preferred state of body maintenance neglect, or do I cave and make myself presentable to the viewing public?
It's a dilemma that didn't formerly exist for me. In my sophomore year of high school, I embraced a more radical tenet of feminism that rejected all socially imposed forms of beauty standards. Fortunately, I already didn't wear make-up, as I was too cheap to purchase the stuff and never learned to properly apply it anyway, so not adjustment was required there. While I began shaving the back of my head (once causing my bubbe to cry because she thought I had cancer and no one told her), I stopped shaving my legs and under arms. Since not shaving was a political statement and act of rebellion against the dominant patriarchal culture, I had no problem strolling the steaming streets of suburban Chicago displaying my hairy legs. If people stared at me, it was their problem, not mine. I secretly scorned the sheepish women who refused to understand that they were being controlled by men who sought to infantilize them. (Ah, to be an idealistic youth!) With the shackles of time-wasting beauty rituals thrown off, I had more time to do things that interested me, like read Stephen King books, talk on the phone, defend women's clinics, or watch TV.
Years later, I don't care what other women do. Since I am not down with others lecturing me on how to prepare and present my body, I learned that preaching to others was equally unappreciated and wrong. At the same time, I also continue to avoid shaving whenever possible. This is no longer because I care as much about the ideological underpinnings of body hair (although I still find the topic fascinating), but because I am flat out lazy. (It is also why I still don't ever wear make-up. Too much effort.) Shaving takes time, money, and effort. Ignoring my leg and pit hair, on the other hand, is the epitome of convenient. However, it is not professional to show up at work with hairy legs and arm pits. If I want to indulge in breezy summer clothing, I have to shave. That's the price one pays for wearing comfortable clothing, an option not open to men during the hot summer months.
The change in my attitude toward shaving for political reasons also affects how I feel in social situations. After dropping the political cause I formerly applied to not shaving, I am actually embarrassed when I go out in public looking like I am a trained monkey who escaped the circus. Since it no longer is an act of rebellion, it just advertises that I am a slob. I feel the judgments more keenly. Not only
