In high school, my peers used to call me Mountain Man Erick because I didn’t shave my legs. My mom started waxing my legs and eyebrows when I was 14, but often during the winter, my legs would go untouched for months. The high was usually around 28 degrees, I was in a long-distance relationship, and I really couldn’t be bothered to remove my leg hair, even with the rude comments from those around me.

In college, I started waxing more regularly, including my underarms and bikini area. For many women, even this decision is a leap from the norm. Yes, it was painful and expensive, but I didn’t have to touch my skin for 3 whole weeks. The act of shaving was not appealing to me; it took much longer than a few minutes to remove my leg, armpit, and pubic hair. Shaving rashes were painful and the air was so dry my skin would bleed if I didn’t apply copious amounts of lotion.

Waxing honestly wasn’t much better, either. Eventually, I developed bacterial, systemic ingrown hairs that were painful and embarrassing. I’ve tried hundreds of dollars worth of products to remove them, but nothing has helped. Shaving became out of the question for me because the razor would irritate my skin even more. I compared prices for laser treatment, but couldn’t swallow the multi-thousand dollar investment it would be.

I carried around razors and shaving cream years after I stopped shaving my legs— just in case. Then I started bringing wax strips and tweezers to prune and pick at my skin before an event, which would usually make me more insecure and anxious than if I had just said “f*ck it.” Then finally, I blew up my friend’s microwave from heating up my eyebrow wax and went on a three-month cross-country road trip so I let the ladies grow and blow in the wind— all the ladies: my eyebrows, armpits, legs, toes, Brazilian area (luckily this is all the body hair I’ve felt pressure to remove. Some women remove hair from their lips, stomach, back, arms, etcetera).

Since then, I’ve had friends and lovers say and do the following:

• My guy friend would run his finger along my shins, giggling, braiding the hair together, looking intently at individual sprouts. “I love it but I just can’t believe you,” he repeated over and over.

• My aunt rested her hands on my bare shins to lean over the counter and she stepped back shrieking. “Oh, that’s disgusting! And you’ve got apey armpits too? Oh, don’t tell me you’ve got hair hanging out of your bikini bottoms. I’m not going to the beach with you.”

• My female friend, who made me an herbal infusion of rosebuds, hibiscus, and marshmallow root powder to relieve some back pain, just stared at me in horror when I flashed her my pits. “Show my boyfriend,” she demands. “I’ve got a razor you can use in the bathroom, you know. Seriously, it’s right down the hall,” he said, backing away from me.

• My man friend said, “Are you sure? Doesn’t it make you feel less sexy? Don’t you want to feel smooth? Maybe it’s something you should conform to.”

• “You just might have to socially condition me a little bit for me to get used to it.”

• “Gosh, you really do know how hot you are, huh? Driving around the country in your truck growing out your body hair. I love it.”

At first, I was just lazy. I had no plans to sleep around or wear bikinis and I didn’t want to track down various waxing studios (because it is painful and my skin is sensitive— having a regular esthetician is as important as having a regular hairstylist) or spend the money and time doing it. But when I started having sex and going to the beach, I still didn’t take the time to remove it. I was finally saying “f*ck it.”

But I was ready to dig deeper into this decision I was semi-subconsciously making. I went to the Women’s National Hall of Fame in Seneca, New York on my road trip and there was quite a bit of emphasis on beauty standards and specifically how Western beauty standards have limited and restricted women— corsets, long dresses, dangerous chemicals used for hairstyles, make-up, skin lightening, hair removal. This got me thinking. When I started looking into it, I found some articles that boosted my “f*ck it” attitude. Other women do let their body hair flourish. Because if you think about it, I’m sure you’ve seen some pit hair here and there, and maybe a couple of ladies rocking some hairy legs, but have you ever seen pubes out and about on the beach on a woman? I don’t think I have. That’s honestly CRAZY— every single woman I’ve been close to on the beach felt the need to remove the hair along her bikini line when her body NATURALLY grows hair there. From around age 13 to whenever women stop going to the beach, they remove the hair around their hoo-ha. What the f*ck kind of social norm is that? It was reassuring to know that some women do indeed go “full wook.”

When I really started digging into the research behind women and their body hair (which I still haven’t researched deeply enough), I was expecting studies on this topic, I was expecting to learn that women removed their body hair due to patriarchal, colonial brainwashing. I think that is a major component of it, but body hair removal for women started thousands of years ago in Ancient Egypt, men and women in Muslim cultures must remove pit hair for cleanliness reasons, Roman women shaved, and English women even started removing their eyebrows in the attempt to become hairless. This stumped me a little bit…

Aren’t there evolutionary reasons for having body hair? Will humans eventually stop growing body hair? Does my body hair make me gross? I think my body odor lingers a bit more under my arms, but I can actually use deodorant now that my ingrown hairs are less inflamed down there (I haven’t used deodorant in years because my skin is so sensitive). Am I itchier down there? Do I need to shower more? Should I groom a little bit? Are my friends and strangers on the beach going to think I’m disgusting? Why am I insecure about each individual area where I choose not to remove hair? What if my romantic partners prefer my hair to be groomed differently? Are men going to flee from my ape-like armpits? Will my ingrown hair issue ever fully disappear? Is it weird that I miss my esthetician? Do I feel less sexy with hairy legs or do I just feel like I should feel less sexy?

My jumbled responses to some of the judgments and questions above are as follows:

• So much of me is smooth and I don’t want to share my naked body with anybody who will judge me for how I lovingly and intentionally treat it— so I won’t.

• Modern-day hygienic practices make it much easier to please our olfactory senses regardless of what we do with our body hair.

• Shit, I’m hot and young and beautiful and white, if anyone can remove their body hair without judgment or hate, it should be me.

• As my friend said, “it’s just a social construct. Do whatever the hell you want.” I took this in stride and responded, “You’re right. I’m transforming social norms one pubic hair at a time.”

  Even if my confidence wanes on this subject or I completely change my mind, if body hair removal has been problematic for you, I think you’re hot and brave as hell to let ‘em grow. I also think it’s 2022 and I can’t believe we’re just now beginning to combat this sexist social “requirement”. For those who remove body hair, please just consider for a second— what if you stopped? What if you removed the pressure? What money would you save? What pain would you avoid? Could it be worth it?

Conversation Starters:

• Is this a radical idea? If so, why???

• Am I overreacting here? Or is this a legitimate social construct that I should be a little peeved about?

• Do you have any other additional resources for me? Have you had a similar struggle? Got any support or advice for me?

Resources/Inspiration/Additional Research:

• What Women In These 8 Countries Shave And What They Don’t

• A Brief History of Female Hair Removal

• National Women’s Hall of Fame

• Women Are Still Grooming their Bikini Lines — But Why?

• U.S. Women Groom Their Pubic Hair, For Diverse Reasons