Life happens: Happy national de-hair your body day
By Aprill Brandon
Feb. 14, 2013 at midnight
Updated Feb. 13, 2013 at 8:14 p.m.
So, Valentine's Day has come and gone again. The day, as I like to call it for us women, is National De-Hair Your Entire Body Day.
Yes, every Feb. 14 morning or perhaps the night before (or for those of us who are in longer-term relationships, five days before followed by a brief shower inspection followed by the sentiment "screw it, the stubble isn't that bad"), women across this great nation of ours will waste countless hours and hard-earned money systematically removing every single hair that is not in an approved zone on their face or body.
To wit, hair on your head, your eyelashes and 70 percent of your eyebrows are considered OK. Hair on your chin, upper lip, underarms, legs, feet, majority of the pelvis and the other 30 percent of your eyebrows are not OK.
Just as a reference point, here are all the approved hair zones on men: everywhere.
Now, I've always hated Valentine's Day. But it wasn't until recently I think I pinpointed exactly why (I mean, other than the whole "it's a horrific commercialization of a real sentiment created to make people spend money on lame, singing stuffed bears that their partner won't know what to do with the other 364 days of the year and a faux holiday that means you will spend two hours waiting for a seat at a stupid restaurant neither one of you really wants to be at anyway surrounded by other stupid couples who are pretending they want to be there, too" thing).
It's because Valentine's Day, by its very nature, expects me to be in a romantic mood and looking good at all times that day. And looking good means de-haired. And de-haired means I shave, tweeze, wax and bleach 80 percent of my face and body.
And after that incredibly not fun ritual, I'm supposed to be in a romantic mood, except I'm not. Because everything is stinging, and I have a razor cut on my ankle that refuses to stop bleeding and is currently filling my shoe up with blood. But no, please, feed me another strawberry in front of the fireplace, jerk.
See what I mean? I hate this stupid day.
Of course, I can't blame all of this on Valentine's Day. We women are expected to do these de-hairing rituals throughout the entire year. And I, for one, think it's more than about time we really examine just how ludicrous this whole thing is.
I mean, we're the only creatures on earth that expect this from our female species. For instance, a male monkey doesn't tell his monkey wife "Hey, there is no way in hell I'm ever going to do this, but I really need you to take a sharp instrument and remove all the hair on your legs every few days, m'kay?"
A male dog doesn't expect his lady to bleach the hair above her lip and pluck, one by painful one, a good portion of the hair directly above her eyeballs. And I have yet to hear of a male bear telling a female bear, "Hey, you know what would make you much more attractive to me? If you cruelly ripped out a vast majority of your body hair by its roots. Yeah. That'd be hot."
Not to mention, standards of beauty are always changing. Look at any old painting. Chubby chicks were all the rage. And now we love the "I haven't eaten in six years, but also I'm toned" look. Having a a sun-kissed "oh, I just got back from Cabo" tan was in for what seemed like forever until "Jersey Shore" gave us a reality TV funhouse mirror to look in and we all realized that no one looks good with an orange skin tone. And you can't throw a pair of scissors these days without hitting some woman who has burned all the pictures of her with the "Rachel" haircut.
So, the only question left is, when is this trend going to die? When can women run around in their natural, hairy state completely free and uninhibited? And, dare I say, even considered sexy, hairy toes and all?
I say we ladies make a stand. Burn our Lady Bics and march on Washington - The Million Hairy Ladies March. Damn the Wax. Save the Follicles.
Because if we all do it, all stop removing our hair, all at the same time, we can take away the stigma that generations of weird, hippie chicks who have a pet chicken have given to the Free Hair Movement.
So next year, who's with me?
Because, trust me, you don't want me being the poster child of this movement by myself. Cause when I don't shave, I look like the love child of a hairy Persian man and a female gorilla who has had testosterone injections.
Aprill Brandon is a columnist for the Advocate. Her column runs every two weeks in the Your Life section. Comment on this story at VictoriaAdvocate.com.