Volume 09

The idea of hairless underarms wasn’t aroused until
1915, when the May issue of Harper’s Bazaar was
released, including an ad that detailed a grainy grey
image of a woman all-smiles as she debuts her bare
pits in sleeveless garb, the dress itself a radical notion
for the times. The caption: Summer dress and modern
dancing combine to make necessary the removal of objectionable
hair. A few years later in an ad put forth
by Ashes of Roses, the first sentence daringly states:
The fastidious woman day-to-day must have immaculate
underarms if she is to be unembarrassed. The second
line read: Sleeveless dresses, the thinnest of silk hose
and knee-length skirts make superfluous hair embarrassing.
Advertisements were so devious as to impart
these insecurities before the hair had the chance to
unfurl from the suppression of modesty; a consumerist,
profit-lusting ploy that the razor and depilatory
cream businesses perpetuated, and fashion magazines
propagated, eventually convincing women and men
that hairless skin was obligatory.
Two days post soul selling, we hit the road. Before
long, I was sprawled out, my laced hands a pillow
in lieu of the one I forgot. I was barely awake when
I felt my mom pinching my toes. “Brantlee. B. BB.
Shorty. Brant. Brant. Brantlee.”
“What mom.”
“Can you shave your pits for me when we get there?”
I sighed, “I’d rather wear a t-shirt the whole time,” which
encouraged her to ask, why is it such a big deal?
It’s not, and that’s the fucking point. I don’t grow
out my body hair out of spite for the establishment,
though that is an advantage I inadvertently reap in
consequence. It is not about an upcoming trend or fad.
It is not about pissing you off. It’s sort of about offending
elderlies, but above anything it is about my right
to shave or not to shave based on the sole and simple
principle that I don’t have to be bound to one or the
other because of my gender. I don’t remember asking
to be born and I definitely don’t remember choosing
to be a girl. I don’t remember signing a contract that
subscribed me to lady-likeness. I openly pick my nose,
announce my bowel movements in crowds, neglect
my hair for days. Deodorant has never been a top-shelf
priority, nor has pursing my legs when seated. I’m happiest
when I’m camping: dirty, cloaked in caked sweat
and campfire perfume. In the same vein, I run through
fourteen potential outfits before one suffices, and even
then I change at least three times more. I love the feel
of smooth, fresh-shaven skin against modal sheets, but
not so much as to repeat the half hour process daily, or
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