An Open Letter to the Random Strip of Hair That I Always Miss When I Shave My Legs

Dear strip of prickly leg hair,

You’re a real buttface.

If you sense some tension between us, frankly, it’s because you frustrate me.

I wish I understood you. Why are you here? How do you sneak by undetected, time and time again? Are you toying with me?

Summer weather is approaching and unfortunately this means I have to shave more. I’m not happy about it, but if I want to wear shorts without looking like I’m wearing knee high fur boots, then it’s something I’ve come to accept.

I know what you’re thinking, “Why just knee high?” Well, that’s because my dark Sicilian leg hair stops right at my thighs. I’m not bragging, but I am a little curious why Mother Nature thought my thighs needed to fend for themselves against harsh winter weather.

Back to my point …

Shaving isn’t rocket science. That’s why your existence baffles me. I swear I’m shaving every inch – the disappearance of my soapy foam one strip at a time tells me so.

Yet, as I’m out to dinner with my friends wearing a skirt and feeling high on life, I reach down (What is it that compels me to do so? An itch? A hunch? My intuition?) and there you are.

A sore thumb. A fuzzy, prickly strip that sticks out more than I did when I wore a Tori Amos t-shirt to a Little Weezy concert.

Did the razor stop working for that one particular swipe? Was I in a hurry? Why was I so negligent and careless?

The trouble is, once I’m aware of your existence, I become a little obsessed with you. You don’t deserve the attention, but like one of those unsatisfying underground pimples emerging from my chin, I can’t stop touching you. It’s not fondness, I assure you. It’s more like addictive denial - maybe if I touch one more time it will all be a bad dream.

Ok, maybe I’m being a little dramatic. Most people probably don’t even notice I have a black Velcro strip running down my leg. However, as I’m cuddling with my husband on the couch and he runs his hands over my legs in a loving gesture, I notice he also stops right where you are. He knows better than to mention your existence. I don’t want to talk about you, and he knows it. Yet, you can tell in his eyes there’s a part of him that has questions.

Will he survive? Yes. Will my pride? I just don’t know.

Right about now you might be asking, “Why not just go back later and shave the strip?”

Because that’s way too much work and I’ll thank you to stop asking me stupid questions.

Now listen up – it’s almost summer time. As long as I need to keep putting these pasty white corn dog legs out into the hot breeze, you and I are just going to have to get used to each other.

But, let me make myself clear: come fall, the joke’s on you. I only shave on a “this is getting out of hand and really itchy” basis.

So basically, your days are numbered.