Tales From the Pits--A Brief Update

It has been about 5 weeks since I stopped shaving my underarms and I officially have hair. Not stubble. Not something that could be mistaken as laziness. Actual “oh ma Gawd. She has hairy armpits” armpits. Certainly I have not reached the point of full grow out, but my condition is unmistakable. A couple things about it have been surprising. One is that it doesn’t gross me out like I thought it might. As “going natural” would imply, it really does looks natural. Having fur where it never used to be occasionally catches me off guard, but I don’t look at it and wonder how someone managed to glue prop hair to my armpits while I slept.

The second surprise is that I DO feel more sweaty. I don’t often sweat. A lack of exercise and a moderate climate keep that in check. However, I now find that I periodically feel a little damp under there. It makes sense, so much so that I probably should have guessed it would be the case. The good news is that I DON’T stink. Odor was one of my chief concerns. But regular showering and good old Tom’s of Maine deodorant seem to be keeping me as fresh smelling as my regularly shorn self once was. Where did I get the idea that I would emit noxious fumes? I think it must come from the hippie patchouli set of my college days. It never occurred to me that I have been living amongst naturally hirsute males my whole life and not generally been offended. (The exception of course being after a sporting event. Dear God help us all.) I suppose it is just one of those things we tell each other and assume is true.

Even with all this good news, I’m not really a fan of the underarm hair. I’ll see it through, but after my cap sleeve incident the other day, I find that I am feeling too self-conscious to pull this off over the long term. Last week on a sunny warm day, I threw on one of my favorite summer shirts that has a pretty little shoe pattern and cap sleeves. I didn’t even think about the revealing nature of the top until I lifted my arm to reach. Oh the horror. Again, the hair did not look gross. I simply felt the full weight of possible stares and whispered comments. The oppression was painful. The punitive power of social stigma—what an effective tool to keep us all in line. Ugh. I am a slave to it in this way, I have to admit. I think it comes from having crappy, ill-fitting clothes as a child. I was nearly always out of fashion and I felt the “other-ing” effects of looking different. I still shudder at the thought of sticking out in that way.

When I lived in Eugene, Oregon, I rarely thought about my appearance. I dressed in homemade clothes, shaved my head, went bleach blonde for the first time, and stopped shaving my legs. I did it all for fun. To explore myself and my identity. I still got asked out on dates (by men and women); still had friends and was respected for my talents and gifts. The lines between “us” and “them” felt blurrier, more crossable, more crossed over. I enjoyed letting my freak flag fly without fear of social backlash. I’m only a hundred miles away, and yet I feel so different.

Who’d have thought all that from growing out armpit hair? This journey has been an excellent reminder that there are little bits of freedom all around us that we do not seize or even think to seize. Don’t know if I’ll have anything more to post about this topic in the future as I wait for my goal to be reached. If I have something worth saying I will, but I’m sure by now you are all wondering how I had this much to say about it at all. Thanks for listening and sharing your funny and interesting stories with me. It has been a lot of fun to learn about this widely accepted grooming habit and how it came to be. I have a new respect for the women who reject it, and who have the courage to break with conventions of all kinds so that they can live more fully as themselves. You are my new heros.