Shaving Happiness

I was growing out the hairs in my armpits because I'd shaved my legs with a disposable single-blade razor that shaved a huge swath of skin off at the shin bone of which the scab is still very noticeable 3 weeks later and so what's the good of that? 

That razor had been purchased back when our income was less than our expenses and so I'd carefully priced my options that day in Wal-Mart and fatefully concluded that said razor would be what my precious penny would go toward as opposed to my usual triple-bladed cartridge head with moisturizing strip and pivoting action.  And, I'd actually managed to avoid using those bargain razors, even after buying them, so that after we moved here, and now had an income that could support my heftier desires, I still had a number of these single-bladed razors.  And so, I concluded once again that they needed to be used before I go out and buy something more. . . safe. 

So, in one near fatal swipe, I'd not only managed to gouge myself and purge my body of any excess blood, but I also began to wonder why it was I had committed myself to this shaving ritual anyway.  And found that I was the product of society and that it, as a whole, was a product of good marketing - which is absolutely scandalous in my opinion.  So, with that, I determined I wouldn't shave again.  I would be an adult with adult, mature, features that included pubic hairs (including the armpit and groin hairs).  And then I went about finding a swimsuit that might modestly cover those hairs.

My sister happened to call me "progressive" during one of our visits on the phone during this time and, though I hadn't told her that I'd laid my razors to rest, I felt dangerously progressive. 

Then, on Saturday, I went to my boys' soccer game and I couldn't help feel embarrassed that my leg hairs were as long as they were and I was uncomfortably aware that a lift of my arm could reveal the empowered fruits of two weeks but that nobody else would see it as such.  They would just see hair growing out of a woman who also had in tow 6 kids.  And drove a suburban.  And also sat and watched as her 2 year old drank the pools of water from off the picnic tables and then spit it back out - never swallowing it, mind you.  And all that just compiles into "letting oneself go" which denotes an all-around negative connotation in our otherwise ad-fed society. 

So, Saturday afternoon, I shaved.  I got out my nice razor with the triple-blade, the moisturizing strip, and the pivoting action, and I shaved my armpits.  And I shaved my legs.  And I did not shave my bikini line because there was no need to.  And that night, Dru and I got a babysitter and went to a church meeting for adults.  And the day had gone well but I felt like I was going to explode with sad emotion but I couldn't figure out why I was feeling sad.  My day had gone well.  I was feeling well.  The meeting was fine.  Life was good.  But I was on the verge of tears and as the meeting closed and others gathered for the dinner that was being served, I asked Dru to take me somewhere else 'cuz I was going to cry.  We drove to a more quiet place for dinner and I tried to assess the day and week and why it was I was feeling the way I was and the only good reason I could come up with is that, like Samson and his strength, I'd managed to shave my happiness off in those armpit hairs.  And that's the ever lovin' truth of the matter, I tell you.