The Hairy Scaries

ALY VERNON, 15, ON HER JOURNEY OF SHAVING (AND NOT) IN A SOCIETY OF SMOOTHNESS.

Let’s flash back 15 years ago: I was born to a mother of Portuguese descent and a Jewish father. I was beautiful, I was smiling, I was gurgling gleefully…and I was high-key hairy. Luckily, because I was a baby and not yet tainted by the world of vanity, my furry appearance was of zero consequence to me.

But, soon enough, it would become an issue that practically dominated my existence.

Fast forward to fourth grade. I had reached puberty and (lucky me!) I developed early, sprouting rampantly growing patches of thick, dark fur all over my body.

My good friends were there for me, of course, to very helpfully point this out: “Gosh, you’ve got really hairy legs!” and “You have really big eyebrows,” and let’s not forget my personal favorite, “You could be a guy.”

In a desperate attempt to gain some smoothness, I stole my mom’s razor and spent an hour in the shower removing every last hair from my body— and then another 30 minutes meticulously plucking away my unibrow.

By the time I was finished, I was nicked and bleeding and exhausted—but you better believe I was hairless. The razor was my new best friend!

The next day, I strutted off to school in a short skirt and tank top and impressed my friends with my lovely dolphin-like legs (and a couple gruesome battle scars).

My glory, however, was short-lived. When I woke up the next morning, I reached down to stroke my sleek calves and recoiled in horror—my fingers instead encountered a disgusting prickliness. Upon closer inspection, I found tiny black hairs poking through my skin’s surface.