What Your Leg-Shaving Frequency Says About You
Every day: You shave your legs every day?! You, my friend, are presidential material. Really. We don’t even shower every day, let alone mow the same patch of lawn with regularity. We wait until the crop has had plenty of time to jimmy up some substantial photosynthesis action before cracking out the grounds crew. Not you! You, whose skin has the ethereal sheen of a unicorn horn; you, whose hairless skin glistens like a fresh dew drop on a baby wren at the first light of day; you, upon whose barren epidermis a drag racer could feasibly break a land-speed record. If we mock you, it is only because we are beguiled by you.
You are: Angelina Jolie’s leg.
Every week: In with the good, out with the leg hair. Ho, you balanced paragon of routine efficiency and solid personal hygiene, life must be a breeze for you, is it? You have never reached the front door of your high school and realized: Bollocks, I forgot to put on a bra today. For sure, you have never entered a hairdresser with a picture of Meg Ryan’s shaggy crop of yesteryear and emerged looking like Angela Lansbury. There isn’t time for such dire missteps in an adolescence filled with AP classes, unpaid mentoring, and varsity sports. The only misstep you have ever made is not realizing that your true love GORDO is right under your nose, adjacent to your beautiful gams. We look up to you. We want you to braid our hair and tell us about your social life, because it’s almost certainly more shiny and exciting than ours. We want to follow you around, appropriating the same canvas school bag you’ve acquired so that we can be JUST LIKE YOU.
You are: A sunshiny bookbag of Lizzy McGuireness.
Only in summer: Hello, my fair weather friend. Is it that time already? Time to triumphantly usher your formerly downy pins out from beneath their denim disguises like a Heidi Klum post-baby body-reveal, clad in little but wings and panties? CVS says yes! The act of shaving is carried out with the same ceremony accorded the first sweep down a beach by the seasonal lifeguard patrol. Flags are planted, and your legs are ready for the crowds! The people lap up your satiny calves, which glimmer in the generous June sunshine, completely unaware that for nine months a year, your legs lay neglected like rusty skis in a back shed, oxidized and peeling, while their owner careens around carelessly in high-tops. Lap up the warm months, you seasonal phenom—the solstice is nearly upon us.
You are: Adventureland, and you are open for summer.
Every Olympiad: This is the year! You holler. This is the year the legs are brought out of their furry garages and really taken for a spin around the femoral block! Much has happened in the four years since you last bothered to wield razor against skin; Justin Bieber has grown from a mere lima bean into an adult; the Glee kids have moralized a total 243 times; and the very act of shaving has once again become foreign to you, your thick pelt requiring removal one stamp-sized patch at a time due to the limitations of your Bic razor. Inspired by the superhuman athletes that soar faster, stronger, higher in the London 2012 games, you resolve to conquer the contours of your bushy legs once and for all. Having doused your animus in caffeine, you start out strong, but reach only the dizzying heights of your knees before taking a four-year break from the sink, choosing instead to watch archery on the television, leaving your thighs as surly as ever.
You are: Ferris Bueller’s friend’s father’s Ferrari on a joyride.
Never: You are a wild child, a free spirit, a forested sanctuary of alternative ideals, or a naturally hairless enigma. You are probably not a brunette. In gym class, you gave the rope leg-burn. When you lie awake at night, you hear crickets. Coming from under the bedsheets. Your skin is lustrous with the thick oils of biodebris. You hike without gaters. A rattlesnake once tried to bite your ankle and got a mouth full of hair. Shame on him.
You are: Untouchable.
How often do you shave your legs?