When I was about ten years old, my Italian heritage really began to show itself. To accompany my budding breasts and lightly stained panties, the hair on my upper lip became a bit darker - making my stache much more noticeable than ever before. I remember one afternoon I was riding home on the school bus and the redneck bully, Buddy, turned around in the half duct-taped brown pleather seat and began to taunt, “Yoooou’ve got a mustache!” over and over again. “You’re just jealous,” was my only rebut. I don’t know what happened next, but the sting of his ridicule stuck with me.

A couple of years later, around the time when I was finally allowed to deforest my legs, my mom began to wax my upper lip. My sisters and I would gather in the bathroom and patiently await our turn to sit on the edge of the tub and endure this ritualistic torture. The wax was golden goo, straight from the bees. She would lather the sap onto my fuzzy face with a popsicle stick and rip out the roots with muslin. The early days were rough; a burn here, a torn lip there. But always worth it for the smooth finish and sense of belonging in a vain world.

Next came the eyebrows. I didn’t like being the only girl in my senior class wearing two furrowed caterpillars above the eyes, so I turned myself over to the nail salon/tanning bed place down the street. (Exactly who you want fucking with your eyebrows, right?) My happy trail was also in danger that year. My best friend thought I’d look much better without one, but I couldn’t handle the contrast between the single smooth stripe down my belly and it’s surrounding peach fuzz. So I just plucked at the long ones and it was enough to satisfy my vendetta against unkempt body hair. The toe hair, though, that had to go.

I managed to keep a healthy bush for most of my post-pubescent life. Well trimmed and attractive, if I may say so myself. Once a boyfriend convinced me to go bare down there - no carpet to match the curtains. The heightened sensation was nice, but not worth the insane razor burn. At all. Plus I had trouble with the awkward angles and nicked myself a few times. Surprisingly I kept the shaved thing going for a couple of years. It became a part of my transition into girlsex. Somewhere along the line I’d heard that all lesbians shave on account of the non-stop oral action; clearly I wanted to be prepared for that. But I didn’t even like shaving. It was something I did to be sexy, and I didn’t feel sexy. A sweet girl reminded me that I could wear my hair however I’d like. “Whatever is comfortable for you.” That’s sexy.

I haven’t shaved my legs in three weeks. My armpits in two. I skipped my waxing appointment last month and I’m in no hurry to reschedule. I don’t really know why I’ve all of sudden abandoned my hairless ambitions. I guess just as with many other preconditions, I no longer see the point. Apparently, this particular trend was initiated by an ad in Harper’s Bazaar, “Summer Dress and Modern Dancing combine to make necessary the removal of objectionable hair.” I get it. It was a post-war movement, fresh and full of women’s sexuality. I’m sure it even had a positive influence on women’s liberation. After all, hairy legs didn’t matter when women only wore frocks to the floor. But in today’s mainstream, it has practically become a regulation of femininity. And that’s just weird. It’s weird. One small shift in behavior and a few ads in Harper’s Bazaar shaped our society’s expectations of gender. We are sheep. And I’m putting down the shears.

& for your enjoyment: hot chicks with staches: