Beauty and the Beast
A Love Letter to Veet
Forgive me, Veet, for I have sinned. It has been 34 days since my last wax.
In that time, my naturally occurring body hair has faithfully returned to a length that could be seen as “manly,” although considering that it is sprouting from female legs, perhaps we could shift that perspective a bit. I am a woman. It is my body hair. Does that not mean that it is womanly?
It’s not even as if I’m opposed to body hair removal. My waxer’s name is Lauren and I love her. Our time together is as positively delightful as one could hope, given the circumstances.
As you must know as body hair professionals, though, a strict waxing regimen requires time and patience. Oh, and money. Lauren is not a cheap date. So while I wait for ample hair regrowth and money accumulation, I traverse the world covered in body hair.
The first couple of weeks are fine. My hair is light and only getting lighter the longer I wax, so my rising level of “dudeness” isn't immediately apparent. Come sometime around week four, though, my hair suddenly becomes long enough to notice.
For many years this didn't matter. I lived in perpetually chilly San Francisco and my body hair would go weeks or months covered and undisturbed. No one had to know how little I cared about the patriarchy’s hegemonic beauty standards.
This all changed when I began taking pole dancing classes in February.
You know why pole dancers are mostly naked while they werk it? Because if your skin can’t grip the pole, you slide right off. Pants are actually unsafe and make it nearly impossible to do the fun, advanced tricks. Thus, teeny tiny bits of clothing are the uniform. And you know what crop tops and booty shorts don’t do? They don’t cover your legs, thighs or arm pits.
My first two weeks of class were rough. I was in the dreaded home stretch before my next wax and was mortified to be seen in such a state in an environment that already challenges your self-confidence and unmasks body dysmorphia. Even as someone who has become strongly self-assured, I found myself saying silent apologies to everyone around me who had to witness my ratchet body hair (as the kids would say). So much self-judgement! This is me, obviously not caring.
To my credit, though, I didn't care enough to let the negative self-talk keep me from class. I kept showing up in my tiny shorts, regardless of the condition of my body that day. I discovered how weak my body actually was and that I could be stronger than I even knew was possible. I've been forced to train my attention on the present moment in a way I’d never completely been able to in meditation or yoga. If you’re absent or distracted, you can be badly injured. If every muscle in your body isn't fully engaged, you can’t do the tricks properly and your straining effort shows. There’s no faking it. You have to go all in.
This was another hairy week. I have a date with Lauren soon, but until then I found myself in class this week struggling again with what everyone around me must be thinking and nearly overcome with shame. Shame! Can you believe that? Shame is a big, strong emotion that should be reserved exclusively for harmful or rude behaviors, not outward appearance. But no, it’s fine if you act like a terrible person as long as you look the right way.
In the midst of my quiet shitstorm of self-doubt, I was pulled back into the moment by a wide swoop and low dip of my hips. I remembered that I was dancing and that the body doing the dancing was not some shabby rental. This is the only permanent home I will inhabit in my lifetime. I watched my body move in the mirror, gliding smoothly and confidently around the pole with a rapidly expanding skill and had a breakthrough realization:
“The way I look has no bearing on my gender assignment and what my body can do. And what my body can do is really fucking sexy.”
What is gender, anyway? We are moving into a time when traditional gender roles and constructs are being questioned and dismantled. I have more gender neutral or trans people in my life than ever before and it has opened my eyes to how fluid gender can be and how useless the binary is and always was. If men remove their body hair, it doesn't suddenly make them women, so why would a woman having body hair make her a man?
Because you, Veet, wouldn't make any money if you didn't plug into the maelstrom that is woman’s body image, and exploit the existing inclination to shame ourselves and each other for how we look. Advertising creates problems that don’t really exist and generates fear in order to sell us products we don’t actually need. We all know this, but shame on you for trying to make a buck by reinforcing played out, sexist, homophobic stereotypes. How utterly sloppy and pedestrian. Grow up, kids.
Ultimately, I have to thank you, though, Veet. You have generated a great discussion and given me the opportunity to shine a light on my own shame. This has been a productive exercise in expanding radical self love.
In that vein, I raise a challenge to anyone suffering from any variety of body shame to bring it out into the light and take a look. Extremely hairy men, balding men with extensive hat collections, those who are “too thin” or “too fat,” “too tall” or “too short,” haters of their thighs or booties or freckles or eye shape…I stand with you in this effort to turn our attention to and place emphasis not on how we look, but on who we are and how well we love ourselves and those around us. The frame may be beautiful, but is the painting a masterpiece? Is what’s outside worth more than what’s within?
Let’s also continue to challenge gender paradigms which keep us trapped in confining interpretations of what it means to be a woman or a man. Don’t you want to be free to live authentically in your body, doing what feels right for you, not what your gender purportedly dictates?
The binary is dead. Long live free (hairy or hairless) bodies, rising in joy to their own rhythm.
