I hate shaving.
I am looking so forward to cold weather so I can get a break from shaving. I am going to look like Grizzly Adams when Spring hits this year because I have become so annoyed with the process and cannot wait for a reason to take a break. My razor is always dull and I have to run it up and down my leg five times in order to get a smooth cut. I think about the amount of time that I have spent shaving my legs throughout the years, and I am sure I could have built a tiny empire or traveled around the world a few times.
And the armpits. Ugh. Why is it I tug and pull all over my underarm in order to get a good shave and yet when I put on that sleeveless shirt, I still find that one lone hair sticking out of my pit. It’s as if it is giving me the middle finger and laughing hysterically – “You thought you got me, sucker, well I am a hard one to pluck, baby!”.
Maria walked in to the bathroom tonight while I was in the shower. She saw me shaving my leg, and sat on the toilet to watch. Finally, she spoke up and questioned “When will I get to shave my legs?” I sighed and responded, “believe me, Ri, you do not want to have to shave.”
“Yes, I do mom, that will mean I am becoming a woman.”
Yeah, believe me Ri, I felt that way too at age 10. I remember looking at my pits in the full-length mirror situated in my bedroom at my old house and seeing a busy jungle planted in both of them. I waited for mid-size game to jump out onto my floor screaming in delight at finally escaping captivity. I had to actually use gardening shears to trim the hair and then move on to a razor. Now I realize that my mom and dad were protecting me for as long as they could from that awful, inevitable process – the shave. I will undoubtedly do the same for my daughter (although I may break down and give her the razor when I see hair poking out of all sides of her precious arms).