I hate shaving my legs.

You know how most girls have that story of stealing their mother’s razor when they were young because they just couldn’t wait to become a woman? Or that beautiful moment when they learned how to slide the delicate blades against the grain for the first time? To them shaving seemed so glamorous, so feminine, so grown up. Shaving your legs was a magical rite of passage, one that everyone waited their entire childhood for. Well, everyone except me, it seemed. I was the girl whose mother hated hair removal, warning me that once I trimmed that beautiful preteen leg hair it would grow back darker, thicker and uglier forever. My mother barely used her razor, opting instead to head over to her friend’s salon once a month for a wax, though she made sure I knew it hurt like hell every time. Before I was 10 my brain was programmed to know that leg hair removal was the worst part about being a woman, that once I started I’d be tied to long showers, prickly spikes and wasted paychecks forever. Leg hair was a curse that we had to work everyday of our lives to rid ourselves of, and though I managed to stave off the dreaded razor until I was almost 16, my friends held an intervention before a school dance and there was no going back.

From then on I more or less kept up like I should, shaving every other day in the summer and dutifully before special occasions. In the winter I shaved before basketball games or hot tub parties, but on days (or weeks) when I knew I could, I’d wear long pants or tights to spare myself the extra 20 minutes of shower time. Shaving my legs was something I did for other people, though I always felt like there were so many better ways to spend my time than removing something that would grow back in a few days.

This spring I got my legs waxed for the first time. I’d been meaning to try it for a while, so when my mother suggested we go to her friend’s place I was excited. Could this be a viable alternative to the time suck that is shaving? It was slightly embarrassing to lie there on the table and talk to a woman who knew my mother’s leg hair so well that she could compare our growth patterns, but it was also nice to be able to ask questions and talk candidly with a person who’d heard about me all my life. She was done in an hour and yeah, it definitely hurt, but it also felt wonderful, like a purge of the guilt I’d usually have to feel for ignoring the razor for the next three weeks.

When I asked how soon I could come back she shook her head and told me that waxing was for people who liked their leg hair, that if I didn’t enjoy the regrowth then waxing wasn’t for me. At the time I didn’t understand her, dismissing the idea that it was even possible to think of leg hair as anything but the enemy, but over the next few weeks I found myself doing just that, beginning to appreciate the soft, light, beautiful hair that was growing back. Now that I was growing it out for a purpose (it has to be long enough for the wax to grab hold), I allowed myself to let go of the shame I used to feel on no shave days and actually start to take pride in it. Yeah, my hair is long, I’d tell myself, but I have an appointment to get it waxed next week. There is nothing I can do about it, so there is no point in hiding until then. Waxing allowed me to put the burden of my leg hair on another person, freeing me to live my life independent of my hair. Guys I’m serious, just like that the guilt is gone, and I love it. I don’t think I’ll ever go back.

It’s not that I mind having smooth legs; I love the way hairless feels as much as the next person. And it’s not that I’m trying to shock people with my feminist leanings or hippie standards, though I’m completely in support of people who do. The simple truth of it is that I don’t mind my leg hair, and when I remove it I’m usually not doing it for me. So what happens when it matters to a potential mate? I’ll deal with it then, it’s not like choosing to shave or not to shave is a permanent choice. I know I’m not shaving for my friends, it’s not like they’ll ditch me for a little fuzz. And as for strangers, sure smooth legs would help me fit in, but I would also fit in better if I never wore high heels; that sure doesn’t stop me from the occasional night out as a 6’1” woman.

For me, most days the payoff for shaving isn’t worth it. The thing is, apparently what I do with my leg hair isn’t only my business.

I went to an outdoor concert festival this weekend and finally got to wear one of my summer dresses that had been patiently waiting for me all winter. It was a scorching day, pants or tights weren’t an option and since my waxing appointment isn’t until next week I decided there was nothing to do but embrace my hairy legs. It felt good, I still felt attractive and if anything it made me feel more confident, that I was secure enough in myself to do what I wanted and not what I felt other people would want me to do. It was empowering and freeing and something that didn’t matter. Seeing a little leg hair isn’t the end of the world.

But of course, while merrily dancing and minding my own business I heard the group of late 20-something women nearby me start to gossip about my leg hair. Minutes after the lead guitarist had made a moving toast that happiness is all that matters, the three women circled up and proceeded to tear me down. The music was loud and they were pretty drunk, so I don’t think they thought I could hear, but seeing as they were about a foot away there wasn’t much I could do but listen in.

“Oh my god, do you see her leg hair? That’s ridiculous. Shaving isn’t that hard.”

“I mean yeah I don’t feel like shaving sometimes but I NEVER let it get that bad.”

“Look how it catches the sun, just because it’s blonde doesn’t mean she can get away with it.”

“I can’t believe she left the house like that.”

“Guys can’t be okay with that.”

At the time I considered confronting them. It would have been easy to call them out on their rudeness (they had already offended the other people around us with a few swear words and valley girl exclamations), and at my lowest point I even thought of a few insults to throw back at them. “Oh I’m sorry, I couldn’t get a hold of you this morning so you could approve my body choices! You’re so right, next time I promise to find the nearest man to tell me how I should change for him.” Or “It makes sense that you would be talking about my legs because you’re so short they’re at eye level.”

But as I imagined all the ways I could put them in their place I heard their insecurities start to come through.

“Yeah, I mean no one likes shaving their legs but you know, we… we do it anyway because… because well men like it.”

“… Do you think it is true that most men don’t actually care?”

“Some men don’t care, maybe… But trust me, most care. Trust me.”

“Once you’re married or something it’s okay to let it go but that is how divorces start.”

And just like that I was sad for them, sad that these beautiful, adult women were still insecure enough that they felt like they had to shave or wear makeup or change anything to find and keep a man. As they continued it became clear that they hated shaving as much as I do, but were only attacking me because they weren’t secure enough to stop shaving themselves.

I refuse to be ashamed of my leg hair. Whether or not I shave that day or wax that week has no bearing on who I am or how I live my life. And from here on out I won’t be hiding my legs. If it isn’t important enough for me to have smooth legs that day, then I’m not going to worry whether anyone sees it. I am more than the length of my leg hair, and the more hairy legs we see, the less shocked we’re going to be about it.