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The Journey to Embracing Body Hair: A Personal Reflection

Before every middle school dance, I embarked on a seemingly ridiculous full-body hair removal ritual. I shaved my big toes, legs, pubic hair, and armpits, meticulously swiping my razor over any unwanted hairs below my belly button, in the center of my chest, and around my nipples. Plucking my eyebrows and those rogue chin hairs was also part of this extensive grooming routine. To top it off, I applied Victoria’s Secret Pure Seduction lotion all over my hairless body and let a creamy depilatory cream dissolve the hair above my lip. Although I was cautioned to leave it on for only ten minutes, my stubborn wiry black hair often forced me to extend that time, resulting in minor chemical burns around my mouth. These burns were not only painful but also embarrassing, so I covered them up with thick Maybelline Dream Matte Mousse foundation, determined to maintain the façade of being completely hairless.

For as long as I can remember, I have been self-conscious about my body hair. It’s unclear what exactly triggered this anxiety, but experiences throughout my childhood reinforced the idea that body hair was something to be ashamed of. From classmates teasing anyone with even slightly connecting eyebrows to feeling out of place in the gym locker room as one of the few girls with pubic hair, my fears deepened. I distinctly remember watching my older sister experiment with Nair, only to hear her shriek in agony as it seemingly melted her skin off. Thus began my ingrained belief that body hair was undesirable, and the ritual of removal became a non-negotiable part of my life, no matter how painful or tedious it was.

Despite my diligence, it seemed like there was always some stubble visible on my body. In high school, I found myself awkwardly balancing my head on my hand during class or lunch, strategically hiding my mouth to avoid exposing my “five o’clock shadow.” However, as I grew older, my anxiety regarding hair on my legs, armpits, and pubic areas lessened. While I still shaved, I no longer felt embarrassed if I encountered a little stubble there; it became more common knowledge that women naturally grow hair in these areas. Yet, I still felt immense shame around hair in other regions of my body, particularly on my stomach and breasts, especially when it came to intimate moments with partners. I was terrified of being judged for my maintenance routine.

Ironically, my body hair never truly bothered me; I was more afraid of how others would perceive it. I convinced myself that I enjoyed the sensation of being completely clean-shaven. During my college days as a track athlete, I reverted to my middle school ritual on Friday nights before competitions, making sure to eliminate any hair that might show in my revealing uniforms. I would joke with my boyfriend about being a “naked mole rat,” believing that I felt most attractive in a hairless state. Reflecting back, I realize he likely didn’t care about my grooming habits, but my own discomfort with body hair led me to believe he did.

After moving from Iowa to New York City, I began encountering more women flaunting their body hair in real life and on social media. This exposure sparked a desire in me to experiment with my own hair growth. However, as a single woman, the thought of how new partners might react held me back until the pandemic hit. Suddenly, with no social outings on the horizon, I questioned the necessity of shaving. I realized I had always done it for the approval of others, and keeping up with an elaborate grooming routine felt trivial and exhausting amid a global crisis. The pandemic offered me a unique chance to let my body hair flourish without the usual societal pressure.

As I stopped shaving, I found immense freedom in this new experience. My showers became quick and uncomplicated, and my skin felt healthier than ever without the irritation from razors. Initially, my hair was spiky and somewhat itchy, but that sensation dissipated within two weeks. Now, I haven’t used a razor since early March, and my hair has grown pleasantly soft. Occasionally, I trim my bikini line with scissors for comfort, but I have rediscovered a sense of pride in my body hair that I never thought I could possess.

As the weather warmed and I transitioned to wearing shorts and tank tops, I found myself facing the reality of being seen with visible body hair. While I was okay with any stranger seeing it, the thought of appearing hairy around potential romantic interests was daunting. I went on FaceTime and socially-distanced dates, slowly acclimatizing myself to the presence of my body hair. On one outing, wearing leggings at Coney Island, I became acutely aware of the visibility of my leg hair as I took off my shoes. While I instinctively tried to cover it, I realized he likely didn’t even notice. As we continued dating and engaged in a running session, I understood that if I remained unbothered by my body hair, others would adopt the same attitude.

I now confidently embrace my body hair, and even though I occasionally feel a twinge of self-consciousness when around men, it has become like exposure therapy. The more I reveal my hair and witness the lack of negative reactions, the more comfortable I become with it. Sometimes, I even relish the chance to show it off and attract individuals who appreciate the natural realities of human bodies.

This journey toward body positivity has not just been liberating but also transformative. I’m proud of how something that once caused me great shame and embarrassment has turned into a symbol of self-acceptance. I’ve learned that beauty routines should focus on what I genuinely enjoy rather than adhering to societal norms that don’t resonate with me.

It is peculiar that it took a global pandemic for me to understand reclaiming my body hair would not detract from my happiness. Amidst all the chaos, I’ve found satisfaction in watching my hair grow, serving as a tangible reminder of both my body’s natural state and my personal growth. Allowing it to exist freely has instilled a sense of empowerment. Ultimately, it has become more than just hair; it symbolizes the journey toward self-acceptance and reminds me that I am continually evolving, just like my body hair. Embracing my underarms, bikini line, and mustache—every bit of it.

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