Bel Olid - Hairless

It took me a long time to realize that the ads for shaving products, in which a hairless woman shaves to remain hairless, were a farce, and what was happening to me happened to many other women. In fact, I discovered this when I was 17 or 18 and I began going to bed with women more liberated than me, who invited me to caress them without worrying whether they looked ‘presentable’ or not, who offered me their open cunts without even considering what I would say about their bikini line. I was upset by such a lack of concern; I was a little irritated that they didn’t play the game; I loved knowing they existed. I was profoundly shocked by the possibility of bodies that feel and vibrate and live beyond the norm, and I desired the strength to be one of them too. But while it was an important revelation, I didn’t stop trying to appear ‘normal’. Just if I was wearing a swimsuit or shorts. Just if I was wearing a dress. Just if I was undressing in front of someone for the first time. And so on, for many years, until the age of almost 40. Then, one day, I decided not to shave anymore.

Outwardly, practically nothing changed. The people with whom I shared a bed and intimacy were used to the bushiness of my groin, as intense and extensive and fragrant as desire itself. But I knew I’d decided not to shave, and this hair wasn’t circumstantial. It wasn’t an accident that had to be corrected as soon as possible, nor was it squatting on my skin. I’d labelled it a legitimate resident of my body, and I planned to allow it to accompany me in sickness and in health, to the swimming pool and to the beach, until death (ideally, not mine) us do part.

The first day I left home in shorts with hair (lots of very long hair) on my legs, I felt absolutely vulnerable, yet euphoric. I didn’t know what would happen, but I was breaking a very rigid norm. A norm which I had invested time, money, sweat and tears in to uphold. I felt proud of my decision and, at the same time, ridiculous for the undeniable slightness of the gesture. Thousands of women every day fighting for noble causes – extremely noble, extremely important – and yet here I was, proud of showing a bit of hair.

In the fluorescent light of the metro, my legs seemed even uglier than under the brilliant sun that June morning. I ran my hand over them, as if I wanted to smooth the hair. The woman sitting opposite stared at my legs, hypnotized. She pulled a face of surprise, or shame, when she noticed me looking at her, as if I’d caught her doing something bad. I pulled my legs back under the seat, hiding them as much as I could.

I’d left home thinking that, in that moment, finally, I was escaping gender norms and definitively stating my freedom to be who I was. But, rather than feeling euphoric and happy, I felt ugly and ashamed. The most important path, that of truly accepting myself as I am – not as a draft of the optimal version of myself, not in inverted commas, not accidentally because tomorrow I’ll shave – was just getting started. And the hair on my legs was only the tip of the iceberg.

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