How Shaving My Legs Made Me More of a Feminist Than any Book Ever Could
by Florian Merkel On a lazy, sunny Sunday afternoon my wife dared me to shave my legs out of the blue. I love my leg hair. It has always grown long and strong, making my legs look lumber-jacky and rugged. So I quit contemplating the dare and went on about my lazy Sunday. But the next day I thought, “What the hell, hair grows back and I’m sure it would be good for me to gain perspective through something the Patriarchy has forced on women.” Anyways, it’s a holiday, and I don’t have plans for the next hour. How hard can it be? At least I will be able to say, “See, I did it. I shaved my legs and now I understand the bullshit you go through to look societelly acceptable. It really sucks to be a woman. I’m sorry.” Maybe I could even inspire my wife to shave something in return…
At first, I’m realize I’m a bit excited, even aroused at the idea of shaving off most of my hair. So I take my electric trimmer to my legs and pubic area: reducing my inch-long hair to stubble one row after in five minutes. It’s time to wet shave. Now, to be clear, I have a beard and shave my armpits and frontal nether region with shaving cream about once a month, but even so, I have little idea how much shaving cream I will need to complete my entire lower half. Hint: it’s a lot. No wonder my wife has shifted to cheaper alternatives like cast off shampoos and conditioners.
After lathering up one leg and watching a “first time leg shaver” YouTube video to make sure I’m not about to fuck up royally, I take the razor to my right leg. So far so good. Easy peazy.
Twenty minutes later, however, I’m still shaving the same leg and contemplating the Patriarchy. Thirty minutes left until I need to leave to meet up with my friends. I’m now thinking about what a huge failure I am for being unable to simply shave my legs before heading into town. Right leg done! No, wait. My butt needs shaving too…
Finally, my right leg and both cheeks are done, so I move on to the left leg. Twenty minutes before departure. “Don’t cut yourself,” I keep telling myself. Row after row after row, my leg stubble slides off. My back hurts from bending over for so long. “Am I just a whiny bitch?” I think to myself. Aaaah, the Patriarchy comes to mind yet again. I want to kick someone in the balls.
While shaving, I notice bruises, a bug bite, some birthmarks, and a couple of scars I didn’t know or had forgotten I had. Looking at one leg for so long makes you really examine every detail. It makes you notice the flaws. The beauty always lies in the whole shape or concept. The flaws are all in the details. “Leg two done. Hallelujah!” I think.
At this point, my legs are so dry, I can’t wait to moisturize them. Honestly, at this point I really want to reward myself by taking a few minutes to masturbate in the shower after the whole ordeal, but my legs are too dry and itchy to focus on anything else. I exit the shower. Lotion on. Done.
Looking down at my noticeably bumpy, white legs; I can’t help but think of a naked mole-rat “ew,” I think to myself. My shorts are cold and sticky against my thighs. I can already tell I will need to wash them tomorrow, though I can usually wear this particular pair of moisture wicking shorts for at least six days. I suddenly realize how effective leg hair is as a barrier between us and our sweat and clothes. Well, I won’t be partaking in that manly luxury this week…
Acutely aware of the fabric touching my legs, I cancel my plans for the evening, as I’m not interested in any more stress right now. Interestingly, the thought that runs through my mind while cooking myself dinner is, “If anyone asks me to do anything for them right now, I swear I’ll…” Suddenly, I have a flashback to several weeks before when my wife had reacted negatively for no reason. She had been making dinner after having spent an hour in the bathroom making herself “beautiful”. I had sauntered into the kitchen after my own hour of cat video enriched alone time to pepper her with mundane questions about what she was making for us. I now understand why she might have been somewhat annoyed.
Steaming quesadilla in hand, I sit down at my laptop to capture my thoughts about this leg shaving experience. Unfortunately, my thoughts are elsewhere, as I can’t help but notice how itchy my crack is as the cheek stubble grind against my delicate, exposed skin. For the first time in my entire life, I think to myself, “I’m going to get my butt waxed tomorrow…”
This experiment has shown me how distracting and needless female beauty routines are. To me it seems these preoccupations serve no purpose other than to steal massive amounts of time and money from women, so men can enjoy a competitive advantage.
In summation, I just want to say to my fellow men: If your girl comes out of the bathroom after one, two, even three hours: never, EVER ask, “What took you so long?” Don’t rush her. Understand what unnecessary mundane time, money, comfort, and brain space stealing bullshit rituals the Patriarchy has conditioned her to think she must perform. She is putting herself through all sorts of hell to make herself “presentable”. Let her know that she is beautiful with or without body hair and makeup, because her mind and spirit are the most important parts of her.
Gals: If your guy just doesn’t get it, just ask him to shave his legs.