In Which I Broach the Subject of Leg Hair


Note from Rachelskirts: If you are at all grossed out by talk of leg hair on a woman, I suggest not reading this post. You may instead skip to the bottom and leave me a comment thanking me for not including pictures.

So yesterday, being Leap Day, was my official day off from this Blog365 project. That saved me ten whole minutes of panicking ("It's 11:50 p.m.! I haven't written a blog entry yet! Arrg!"), which gave me an extra ten minutes to make out with Frodo Baggins on Sims 2.

Actually, I took a bit of a vacation from the internet as a whole last night, choosing instead to cram in a little extra time for sleeping. I woke up this morning afternoon and gave March a giant hug, thanking it for effectively killing February.

February is a hairy brat for many people, but it's a bit hairier for a certain group of guys in Texas. I've mentioned before that most of my friends live on the same dorm floor, named Club, at the college I attend in Texas. Club has a really strong history built upon numerous traditions, which is just one of the many reasons I love the floor as a whole. These traditions help build "floor unity" in a fun way, and the guys often can't even fill me in on the traditions because they are floor secrets. One of the few public traditions, however, extends throughout all of February and is called No Chave Month. (Club + shave = Chave.)

As you might have guessed, the boys are not allowed to shave their facial hair at all during the month of February. At the beginning, all the stubble is relatively adorable. By the time Valentine's Day hits, some of them are starting to look a little grizzly. When February 28 (or 29, in this case) rolls around, there are 40 or so lumberjacks stumbling around campus, looking even more homeless than the rest of the students.

Last year, I was given the opportunity to join when someone suggested that I refrain from shaving my legs for a month. I balked at first, but I then jumped at the chance to do something nutty and stupid with my friends. Of course, I wouldn't be able to wear skirts or let anyone near my legs, but, as a single girl with a crush who lived 1,000 miles away, that wasn't going to be much of a problem.

For four weeks, I let my leg hair grow out. The boys would check up on me every once in a while, only to be disappointed to find that the hairs were blonde and short and not at all manly. I'm going to admit that it was well into the second week before I was at all disgusted with myself, namely because — as a northern girl who spends most of the winter wearing several layers of pants coupled with knee socks — there have been times in my life where I have gone a week without shaving out of sheer laziness. By the third and fourth weeks, however, I was beginning to have nightmares that my leg hair was poking out from my jeans for the whole world to see. I was embarrassed even to go to Wal*mart at 3 a.m.

Finally, March rolled around, and I spent an ungodly amount of time in the shower with a stash of razor blades and three bottles of lotion.

My legs? Have never felt so amazing. Ever. I wanted to make all my friends (and heck, even the Wal*mart employees) touch them. Alas, that was going to get super awkward in a hurry, so I kept my joy to myself.

Somehow, Pimp managed to talk me into doing the whole thing again this year, and—despite the extra sleep I got last night—I am completely exhausted right now because, zomg, that leg hair doesn't just cut itself.