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Unshorn Sister of the Apocalypse

About two or three years ago, I embarked on this whole get up and go kind of self-rejuvenation kick. It was probably around this time of year, as this is usually when I get all Zen about my life and shit. I mean, this weekend, I went to a home and garden show and then poured over the internet trying to find some kind of Idiot’s Guide To Hipster Douche Gardening or something, and if that’s not crazy self-rejuventation, I don’t know what is. I only remember a few of the changes: one was whitening my teeth, which I still do on occasion when things start to look a little Candy Corn (stupid Starbucks), and the other thing was that I amped up my moisturizing routine because I no longer could get away with just Dove bodywash and my own natural Brand Weetabix skin quality. Nope, the whole aging thing was kicking in and I definitely was finding myself a little itchy, a little scratchy, a little bit you, a little bit me, etc. I picked a soy-based moisturizer, on the premise that it would reduce the texture of your body hair. Now, I don’t want to give you the idea that I had a hair situation or anything (not that there’s anything wrong with that) because I have northern European ancestry, so it’s not like there’s a thicket happening or anything, but man, I have a thing about feeling stubble. And if I can reduce the number of times I need to shave my legs in the summer? Rock on. And I’m not in love with my arm hair or anything, so if it’s a casualty, whatever.

And because I am sort of a fanatic about shaving my legs (or rather, avoidance of stubble. It’s not like I really get off on that sense of danger when swiping the Mach 3 over the blind spot on the back of my ankle but rather, I am absolutely disgusted by the sensation of stubbly legs and have actually gotten up from bed to take a shower and shave my legs, just because I couldn’t fall asleep with the feel of the stubble against the sheets… yes, neurotic. I’ve never been able to get my legs waxed by a professional because I’ve never been able to wait until I had the minimum quarter inch of stubble required), I picked up Aveeno Positively Smooth Shave Gel and just used that instead of Kiehl’s Close or philosophy’s razor sharp (which is a silicon shave gel and super awesome). Bonus: a lot cheaper than my other standards and Esteban is always complaining about the Anarchy of my Products in the shower.

Fast forward to last summer when I noticed: hey, the shit really was working. I used to have cheese grater leg stubble that bothers me by the second day so would just automatically shave every day, but on Day 2, I could run my hand up my shin and not even detect a trace of stubble. In fact, over the winter, I only noticed that I had to shave when I could actually see hair. Then, over the last few months, I noticed that even visible leg hair didn’t make me wince in discomfort when my bare legs touched each other in bed. Most peculiar. Is this how other people go through life? Is this how those Woodstock types are able to walk around with Wookie legs? My goodness, is this what it’s like to be a guy?

I decided to experiment. How long could I go? What would be the straw that would break this hairy-legged camel’s back? I wish I had noted the first day of the No Shaving decree, but as these things often do, it happened not with a bang but with a “Meh”. I can guess that it’s been three weeks at this point. It might be longer. I totally don’t even know. But regardless, I can tell you that this is the longest period of time that I’ve gone without shaving my legs since I was 12 years old. Which is, you know, really fucking sad.

And now? What’s happening on my legs? FASCINATING.

Obviously, dresses are out right now. And shorts, because my own calves freak me right the hell out. In fact, I have one pair of cropped yoga pants, and when I caught sight of my own leg sticking out of the bottom, I had a mental picture of a Manpri Parade in South Beach. I’ve actually had paranoia dreams about forgetting and wearing a skirt to work and then getting caught with half inch or longer tendrils, waving free in the mysterious sourceless breeze in my cubicle farm. Clearly, if you’re having dreams about it, it’s time to shave, right? You would think, but I’m writing this having freshly showered and ape legs? Still intact. I think I understand secret cutting now, because I know it’s wrong and yet.

And yet.

To be clear, Esteban has mentioned several times that he really doesn’t care if I shave my legs or not, he just hated the beard burn he’d get from my 3-Day Industrial Stubble when we’d be out camping (and yes, I’ve totally shaved my legs while camping, getting mocked by my guy friends in the process), so this kinder, gentler leg thicket? He’s down with it. I’m not, suffice to say, but the incredulity that it’s gotten to this point is kind of amazing. And it’s time to draw this experiment to a close. Now that I know that I can actually survive on a deserted island without a Mach 3, I need to buy a few new razors and do some serious deforestation. And maybe some drain opener for the impending blockage. It’s an old house and really, that’s a lot to be asking of our plumbing.

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