I spent a terrifying proportion of this past afternoon, curled up on the sofa, finishing off the jar of Nutella and watching hilariously awful daytime horror movies. I almost have hit rock bottom. Almost. If I’d sunk to the bottom of the abyss, I’d be wearing a bargain basement tracksuit. I’ve managed to retain my sense of style, if not any other form of sense.
Following my crappy-movie-and-crappy-diet binge, I’ve become a connoisseur of advertising. The one in question on this post (for a popular brand of hair removal products) really got my hackles up. Yes, Veet, I’m talking to you. The main product of said advertising campaign (featuring the usual beautiful woman with beautiful legs shaving already hairless beautiful legs) was the question ‘Which smooth are you? Natural smooth?’ – and that’s what had me stumped. And slightly annoyed. Smooth! Is! Not! Natural!
If I were to rank myself on the scale of smooth, I’d be placed somewhere between moulting Persian cat and grizzly bear. Not aided by my Asian genes (meaning that any hair, anywhere, is alarmingly visible), I’ve had some downright rude comments about my hairy legs/arms/you name it, I’ve got hair there in the past, that knocked my self confidence to such an extent that we asked a beauty salon when I could have laser treatment. Sad, I know. Luckily, now that I’m older, wiser and better at giving people the evils when they’re irritating me, I’ve realised that I don’t need to – shouldn’t need to – change myself just because someone else disapproves. Or because of an advertising campaign.
If women were supposed to be silky hairless creatures, we wouldn’t have body hair in the first place. The reality is that we’re not. I’m perfectly happy with my grizzly bear legs, and I don’t like swimming, so I don’t need to be streamlined. Society has dictated that hairy legs equals masculinity, and in the end men don’t want masculine women, they want dainty creatures that don’t fart and swear and go ‘PHWOAR’ when they see photos of Kit Harington in Dr Faustus. So, in some form of warped logic, hairy legs = spinster with forty cats. I’m fine with that. Attractive Member of the Opposite Sex (who I am currently reeling in with my irresistible charm and wit) hasn’t mentioned my state of hairiness, and I don’t think he gives a damn. All he seems to do is make puns, argue that he actually is 6’1, and take great delight in calling me little one.
If you want to be a hairless lil mermaid because you like the feeling of fresh sheets on smooth legs, then go for it. If, like me, you’re embracing the truly natural look and seeing how long it’ll be until you can start plaiting it, then go for it. But whatever you do, then please don’t feel pressured into it by society.
After all, women only started shaving their legs after an advertising campaign by a men’s shaving company, who were looking for more ways to make more money and exploit more people. Sigh.
It’s my first exam tomorrow (two days straight of making art in exam conditions – so great for the creative juices), and I’m having great fun learning Hamilton lyrics so that I can have rap battles with myself. In my head. Like I said, I’m nearly at rock bottom.