“You know, she doesn’t shave her legs…”
“Asa!”
“What? I just wanted him to know what he’s getting into…”
This conversation happened just after my first official date with the man who became my husband roughly 6 months later. Needless to say, I was mortified.
In a way, I still am. Why is the state of my leg hair of such critical importance?
Because it is. In American culture, female hair is a really big deal. Just stop, for one moment, and think about just how much money and time goes into managing, or removing hair from various parts of the female anatomy. Mind-boggling, isn’t it?
Leg hair, as it turns out, is a big deal to me. A really big deal. God put it on me. Why should I be expected to remove it? But then, those Barbies I played with as a child had long, slender, monochromatic limbs, free from messy little growths. They shone. They were beautiful.
I have long, slender legs. With a good tan, they used to look quite a bit like Barbie legs. Now that I’m in my thirties, I am beginning to notice irritating imperfections, like stretch marks and little purple spider veins.
Wait a minute. Why am I even LOOKING at my legs? Ugh.
Because we all do. I watched a children’s movie tonight with my family, and I was stunned by the number of shots of women’s LEGS, smooth, hairless, slender, toned legs, that were displayed. Did I mention that this was a CHILDREN’s movie? Oh, how effectively my offspring are being indoctrinated.
It makes me angry.
Asa was right. When I met my husband, I didn’t shave my legs. My relationship with hair removal has been on-again, off-again. Literally.
At the ripe old age of 12, I started begging for the “right” to shave my legs. It was the way things were, according to the fashion magazines I read, the puckered and plucked women I saw on TV, and the pretty, popular girls in school.
But there were always the women who didn’t. And they fascinated me. How could a woman walk around, especially in a bathing suit, as I saw some do, with clearly visible leg and armpit hair? Where did they get such confidence? Where did they get such a counter-cultural self-image? Were they dirty? Didn’t they notice “everyone” staring?
When I left my hometown, I generally stopped seeing “hairy” women. And, over the years, I noticed that, when I was least confident, I was most groomed. During my most abusive dating relationship, I found myself obsessively concerned with always presenting a perfectly groomed, nearly hairless physique. It gave me pause. My feelings toward my leg and body hair reflected my feelings toward myself. By the time Aaron and I began dating, I had laid down my razor, and promised myself a level of self-acceptance that I was, frankly, incapable of maintaining.
You see, I was raised on Barbie, and 17 magazine. (I begged for them.) I grew up listening to completely sexualizing music. I wanted to see myself as something amazing, but deep down, a picture of myself as a mere sex object reigned.
So, when it was time to get married, I got out the wax. If I wax my legs, I’m not shaving, right? After wax, I tried an old-school, metal coil epilator, those little sandpaper pads that abrade hair off of your body, sugaring, harsh chemicals that burned the hair off, and more. I guess I was pretty worried about not being “enough.” You see, my husband was raised on those same images of femininity, the ones that demand a perfectly sculpted figure, smooth, flawless skin, and dear god, don’t grow hair anywhere but the top of your head, and your eyelashes. For those, absurdly long and thick would be best.
So, for the last 14 years or so, I’ve shaved, waxed, and plucked my way through life. My irritation with the entire concept of hair removal regularly rears its head, and my husband is stuck trying to snuggle up to a very prickly woman, as I let the shaving of my legs slip, again and again.
Recently, my family and I moved back to my hometown. And I am seeing hairy women, again. I see women with leg hair. I see women with armpit hair. I see women who are aging gracefully, with long, thick braids of hair, in their natural colors, shot through with white. I see fit, shapely, happy women, who are unashamed of the way their body was designed to behave.
I stare at them.
I stare at their legs, and try to decide if they’re beautiful, or horrifying. I stare at their armpits, and wonder, if I let mine go, how much would my own armpit hair show? And, would I get terrible body odor?
I stare at these women, and pray they don’t notice. I watch them with a fascination that might make some doubt my sexual orientation.
I don’t want to have sex with these women. I want to be one of them. But I’m afraid of the stares, probably of women like me. Women who are envious. Women whose addiction to a razor feels like a compromise of their true selves. Why should I have to spend hours a week removing the hair God put on my body?
And, what if I stop?
(Note: This post has been modified, via the comments. Sometimes, things are much better than they seem! In my experience, this is USUALLY the case….)
I went to church this morning. Please forgive the jumbled blog post. I’m still recovering.
My family and I arrived an hour late, and then my “things must always be as I expect them to be” son had a near-total breakdown over the fact that our messy crate of McCall notebooks, pens, crayons, and child-amusing toys had disappeared from its former place in the back of the sanctuary.
I can’t blame anyone for removing the eyesore. We had been absent for months.
Going back, even for half a service, was much harder than I anticipated. I was clobbered by anxiety and fear as I combed my hair, and changed out of my Betty Boop, “Naughty Girls get Nice Gifts” t-shirt and short black skirt into jeans and a conservatively cut sweater. The sweater was, for the record, bright orange. I still had my spark, but not my sense of humor, it seems.
The fact is that I am afraid of church ladies.
There, I said it. That being said, I know that even feeling that way is a judgmental attitude on my part. The very label, “church ladies,” hearkens back to a not-nice-at-all SNL skit. And, the fact is that a couple of my dearest friends (women, even!) were there this morning, and they have continued to be my friends, and to maintain those relationships whether or not I show up to the same building that they do on Sunday mornings.
Our pastor hugged me, bright orange sweater and all. He would have hugged me in my Betty Boop T-shirt, I’m pretty sure. I’m also pretty sure that he would have been answering to some church ladies if he had. But, now I’m judging. Again.
I judge people whom I perceive as being judgmental, and this makes me judgmental. And then I judge myself. What a mess I turn out to be!
When we showed up, our pastor was preaching about who the Accuser of the Brethren is, and not being like him. He was encouraging humility, and being willing to get kicked in the teeth when you get down low, and humble yourself. He spoke about how often being a Christian in America seems to be all about accusing others, and how wrong that is. He encouraged us to love unconditionally.
A few people did reach out. I appreciated each one, and then a few of the ladies beat a hasty exit, refusing to even glance in my direction. I expected that, and coming in the first place was an act of humbling myself. This afternoon, my teeth hurt. There’s at least a chance that they each had a pressing engagement, and simply had to leave. But I’m a bit over-sensitive at church, and a smile and a wave on your way out the door doesn’t take any time at all.
The fact is, though, that they probably have no idea what an effort it is for me to show up on Sunday morning. They have no idea that they have the power to hurt me. They’re running to protect themselves. They run because my family’s continued absence has made them feel rejected, judged and scorned. At least, I’d like to believe that. It hurts less than the alternative theories I could manufacture.
I have a long history of making church ladies (and men) VERY uncomfortable.
As a teen whose physical dimensions resembled a Barbie Doll’s, I listened to my pastor rail against young women who tempt men with their bodies, and I learned to walk with my shoulders hunched. I learned to wear baggy clothes until I grew up and away from them.
As a recent college grad, with a degree in Classical Studies and Religion, I learned that “conservative” country churches don’t appreciate women who are educated, and have opinions. Especially about God, or childrearing.
As a young mother, I learned that nursing, even discreetly, at church will create such a maelstrom of gossip and upset amongst the women of a “liberal” church that the pastor will call you and explain that you are a terrifying woman, and you’d better stop hurting his sheep.
And as a new business-woman, who felt called to fight the colossal mess that sexual relationships and marriages in our culture and churches have become by fighting the Madonna-Whore complex with every ounce of my being, I discovered that my pastor is amazing. He’s not threatened by female sexuality, me, or what I do. He floors me.
And church ladies are still church ladies, because the face says, “we support you,” but the actions, and the several complaining calls to said pastor last summer say otherwise. Frankly, I don’t know how to respond. The women who are my friends outside of church are still that, and both their faces, and their actions agree.
“We love you.”
“We support you.”
I believe them. And I know that my pastor wants so desperately to see his whole church that way. He wants to believe that we are all loving, accepting, etc. He is NOT the Accuser of the Brethren. That’s certain. I’ve never met a more accepting, yet call-you-on-your-bullshit man in my life. And he says, “WE support you.” In my limited understanding, he’s the first pastor to really try. (Except for James Reist. Dr. Reist, who baptized our first son, is also amazing.)
I meet women every week, men too, who need someone like that in their lives. I need more people like that in my life. We all need to be loved unconditionally, and told to get our shit together, too. But the Sunday morning mask-fest, where we all pretend to be something we’re not, and complain to the pastor when someone steps out of line, is not the place to bring them.
I know that much of my discomfort at church is because, in a group so small, “several” complaining calls is significant. I know that much of it is because of my history in churches. And I know that maybe, just maybe, I am supposed to humble myself, and let them kick me in the teeth. Half of me wants to climb on stage and demand that they just get the stoning over with. (Except that I’m pretty sure things are split about down the middle, and I’d just be creating a rift so large that the community itself might disintegrate. Or maybe it’s egotism that makes me think that they care enough, either way.) The other half of me wants to run away, so that I don’t have to, once again, be the woman who makes people at church uncomfortable. None of me wants to put on my shiny happy mask, pretend that I enjoyed seeing everyone, and then call to complain to the pastor when I get home.
No, I didn’t enjoy church this morning. Yes, I could tell that my casual, honest comments to a couple of people felt like slaps in the face. The avoidance of others felt like a slap in my own. The whole experience inspired me to don my running shoes. (Of course, Aaron can be VERY persuasive. He got me to church this morning, and if he so chooses, he’ll get me there again, I’m sure.)
Yes, I knew that the friends whom I see away from church, too, were genuinely happy to see me. And my pastor gave me the world’s longest hug. He can feel me pulling back; he sees my family and I slipping away. I don’t know what to tell him. He’s doing all he can, but the entire institution of church in America seems to be at odds with him.
He’s right. Being the Accuser of the Brethren is the American way of Church. And I’m just as guilty as anyone else. I was raised in it, and I don’t know how to get free from it, except to stay away from church. But in doing so, I am judging those I leave behind. I’m deciding that they judge me. I haven’t asked them, either. As soon as the church ladies called the pastor, instead of me, I categorized them as people who don’t really love or accept me, at all. Judge not, that you be not judged? Yeah, I fail at that. Judgment, it seems, is a web, and we’re all caught in its sticky strands.
Self-loathing:
I know that, in letters, it is customary to begin with, “dear,” but in the given circumstances, I feel that such a word choice would be misleading, at best. You see, my critical eye, this is your “Dear John” letter. We’re skipping the “Dear” part. I think you know why.
For decades now, you have not been nice to me. In fact, I cannot think of a single day of my life upon which you have not abused and taunted me. You have been consistent, and relentless. And you’ve refused help. You’re not one of those abusers who apologizes afterward, and swears that you’ll change. Well, unless you count, “I wouldn’t say these things if you weren’t so (insert insult here)…”
And I have striven to rise above you by doing better, being smarter, growing stronger, grooming more. But, just like a mother-in-law who visits a clean house, only to point out the one remaining piece of clutter on the floor, you are just waiting for an excuse to criticize me. So, I’m kicking you out. I’m done. I’m sticking the proverbial fingers in my ears, and humming a victory march. I can’t hear you any more.
And now that you can’t interrupt, I must tell you:
I am a beautiful, strong, wise, good, loving, talented, charismatic, “whole package” kind of woman. And you are no more.
From the bottom of my heart:
AmberDawn
