Tales From the Pits

I know it seems strange and gross to some of you, but I’m growing out my underarm hair. It started with a Facebook discussion of Monique not shaving her legs. Now I’m all over that. Twelve or thirteen years ago I stopped shaving my legs for the fall, winter and spring because I didn’t see the point. I was living in Eugene, Oregon and unshaven legs weren’t stigmatizing so there was no disincentive to not shaving. I went for it and discovered A) what my leg hair looked like and B) that the hair was soft and not at all freaky looking.

I began dating my husband Steve in the summer, so you know, shaved legs. When the autumn was upon us I gently broke it to him on a road trip. I don’t shave my legs in the cold months. At first he was shocked and I think a little scared. So I said, “Fine. I’ll shave my legs for you if you shave yours for me.” Of course he wasn’t going to shave his legs. He’s a man! Within minutes he saw my perspective and said he’d be open. Much to his surprise, he didn’t mind at all. Now he describes my winter legs as silky and genuinely doesn’t even notice when I start shaving my legs again in the summer.

So back to the armpitd. When the women involved in the Facebook discussion talked about underarm hair I caught myself having the thought, I don’t even know what my underarm hair looks like. Then I felt strangely perturbed. In admitting that I didn’t know what it looked like, I admitted that I had, through cultural coercion, denied my natural self to such a degree that I was content—until that moment—to spend my entire life not knowing what my God-given self looked like. That just seemed wrong.

I made the decision to let my underarm hair grow in. When I told Steve of my plan, he smiled. “I can see why you would want to, but I don’t think you’ll make it. I think you’ll shave it before it’s grown out.” That just made me more determined. Still, if I’m being truthful here—which I must be, or what’s the point?—I was terrified! Terrified that he wouldn’t find me attractive anymore and I would be forced to choose between my path or the good, sweet loving my man provides. What if he hated it and I loved it? Would that mean he was rejecting me as I am? What would happen if there was a catastrophic event that prevented me from getting razors? Would that be the end our sex life? I calmed myself down and pointed out in my best self-talk that I was getting way ahead of myself. I might end up hating it and, at least for the time being, he was onboard.

About a week into the grow out, my underarm hair was the longest it had ever been in my life. I alerted Steve to this milestone moment. He said, “Let me see.” So I lifted up my arm and he laughed. “Where?” I felt insulted. “I know it’s not a lot, but still, it’s the most I’ve ever had.” (Indeed it was only a bit of stubble, but I had been very diligent over the years so it was a lot to me.) Holding back his laughter, if not his amusement, he said, “Well you can’t blame it for being confused. You’ve been hacking it off since it first showed up.” I burst into a fit of laughter. It was going to be slow going I guessed.

Today I’m nearly two weeks into it and there still isn’t much to speak of in the way of hair. I’m less worried about Steve being able to adapt than I am about me being able to. He assures me that he is still open. “You never know, I might not mind it at all. Maybe I’ll even find it sexy. Who knows?” What a good sport. He’s had his own cultural conditioning too, you know. Now I’m left to deal with the other insecurities that arise from this exercise. What will my friends and family think of me? Will I be stereotyped? What assumptions will new acquaintances make? Will I be categorized, ostracized, discounted? Does it even matter so long as I accept myself?

There are practical considerations too. Do you smell more? Does regular deodorant work on hairy pits too? (It must since Steve and I use the same kind and he smells fine.) Should I stop wearing tank tops and sleeveless shirts? Will I be ruling out strapless gowns forever? Do you trim it?

Such a strange little world I live in where such a natural thing can cause this much concern. Surely men still wanted women a hundred years ago before legs and armpits were shorn to the skin. Surely they still want them now in nearly every country outside of the English speaking world. But I live in this time and in this place and that requires me to think a bit, about fashion, approval, and whether it is really about male attraction or how women pressure other women. I guess I’m about it find out.