Sometimes, it sucks to be a girl.
That’s what I think when I have my period. I wince at this fact when I remember my school’s dress code being stricter about us wearing short skirts.
But I think the epiphany reveals itself more when I grow out my thick leg hair, and my guy friend points out its abnormal growth and disturbing visibility.
Come on, can’t girls have their version of No-Shave November? Except, can we get more months off?
When it comes to upkeep, women face pressure differently from men. While both sexes are expected to look their best, men at least have it easier when dealing with body hair.
Growing it out is acceptable on two things: 1) It gives them a more rugged look that some of us dig; and 2) It can even be a form of community service, one that’s about raising awareness toward masculine illness.
Girls almost always don’t have the luxury.
On most days, I hate my body hair. Being born with polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS) and possibly hyperactive androgens, I’m not among the blessed few who can rock shorts, skirts, and sleeveless tops any time of the year without making frequent trips to the waxing salon or using my good ol’ razor. It’s costly. It’s frustrating. It’s too much tiis with only little ganda.
Disapproval
But we have to give in because society would look down on us for being dirty. In an article for The Atlantic, Nadine Ajaka, through the help of other scholars who have thoroughly researched on the topic, pins this almost universal disapproval for body hair on a long history of our ancestors thinking it’s a primitive physical trait.
Meaning, our elders believe that body hair is a sign of devolution. The master race, they thought, is clearly the one with access to wax, laser or Veet.
It doesn’t help that we see hairless models and public personalities in media everywhere. I have to admit, they look good. I know how clean it feels to be stripped.
And that’s exactly why we sadly shell out the money anyway, fueling a multibillion-dollar industry to greater heights and better (sometimes still unsanitary) removal technology.
That doesn’t mean I don’t love it. I’ve come to embrace the hair peeking out of my pubic area or seeking sunshine from my legs. It’s my way of embracing my anatomy, a God-given gift that warms me up and regulates my body temperature, according to science.
It’s my safety cushion against friction—especially down there—that can cause skin abrasion. It’s also one of the reasons why I think women can have it all. If society always praised us for our cleanliness, it can also view us in a different light, one where we’re more humanly normal, and less of the supermodels we aspire.
After all, women aren’t just pretty things to look at. We are known and heard. If our body hair keeps us from being taken seriously or listened to, that says more about the other than the woman with pit hair coming through. —CONTRIBUTED