how i gave in to fascist beauty standards.
i'm sitting in a nightgown at my little computer desk with my knees pulled up to my chin, and i've just shaved my legs, which is a wonderful feeling. two summers ago, i decided to forgo shaving entirely as some sort of experiment; not one with conclusions and data charts, but an experiment with my persona. this was a time where i was wearing skirts and dresses and bows all the time and i thought it would be sort of exciting if i mixed those very strongly girly and delicate things with a symbol that's very strongly masculine and animalistic.
but then i realized that, while some blonde Anglo-Saxon girls might have hairy legs that look feathery and soft and insouciant, and like their life is so busy they simply haven't had time to shave and don't really care one way or the other anyhow, my leg and armpit hair is of the kind that will always look like a Statement. not even a fuck-your-fascist-beauty-standards kind of statement, which is not a particularly shocking statement at this point anyhow, but almost as if every time i raised my arm i started carrying the banner for Animality and Barbarism and Nature. and people kept thinking i meant something important by it, and every time i told them i didn't they were disappointed. so i shaved, because it's burdensome to make such a statement every time you bare your legs or raise your arm.
Ignatius, who is, as i said, very careful not to oppress me, is so funny about female body hair. he says things like "well, if i could choose, girls wouldn't have hairy legs... but i certainly wouldn't make anyone do it."
***
i've always maintained that if you have a persistent stroke of bad luck, more often than not, it's your own fault, at least partially or indirectly. like last semester, when i wasn't registered for one of my exams and my drawing professor didn't get my portfolio; not exactly my fault but i should have known better. i'm trying to separate, in my head, things that are my fault and things that aren't. maybe make a list.
but then i realized that, while some blonde Anglo-Saxon girls might have hairy legs that look feathery and soft and insouciant, and like their life is so busy they simply haven't had time to shave and don't really care one way or the other anyhow, my leg and armpit hair is of the kind that will always look like a Statement. not even a fuck-your-fascist-beauty-standards kind of statement, which is not a particularly shocking statement at this point anyhow, but almost as if every time i raised my arm i started carrying the banner for Animality and Barbarism and Nature. and people kept thinking i meant something important by it, and every time i told them i didn't they were disappointed. so i shaved, because it's burdensome to make such a statement every time you bare your legs or raise your arm.
Ignatius, who is, as i said, very careful not to oppress me, is so funny about female body hair. he says things like "well, if i could choose, girls wouldn't have hairy legs... but i certainly wouldn't make anyone do it."
***
i've always maintained that if you have a persistent stroke of bad luck, more often than not, it's your own fault, at least partially or indirectly. like last semester, when i wasn't registered for one of my exams and my drawing professor didn't get my portfolio; not exactly my fault but i should have known better. i'm trying to separate, in my head, things that are my fault and things that aren't. maybe make a list.