Hairless Americana

Is it just me, or does anyone else notice how very concerned we are with body hair in this country. Women shave (or wax or whatever) their legs, underarms, bikini lines (or more), and pluck, wax or otherwise remove any facial hair other than lovely shapely eyebrows. Some women even go so far as to shave their arms. And we shan't even speak of nose or ear hair unless it resides on an 80 year-old man. Now, I am one of these American women who attempt to keep my body hair in check. Honestly though, when the cold weather blows into the northeast, I get very lax about this. I married a man who either doesn't even notice or couldn't care less. Whichever it is, I count myself lucky that my lazy shaving habits don't offend. But. There's always a but, isn't there? During the show that I just closed, I had two on-stage costume changes. Yes, you heard it right. The misogynist playwright felt it necessary for three of the characters to strip to their knickers on-stage, and made it imperative by writing in said costume changes as part of the action of the play. And she's a woman! I think we should vote her out of the sisterhood. But I digress. The point is, based on these lovely costume changes, and the intimacy of our theater, there was LOTS of shaving going on in my shower. Underarms? Check! Legs? Check! Bikini Line? (who the hell ever thought I'd have to ask THAT in preparation for a show?) Check. The show closed on Saturday night and I was looking forward to returning to my normal, hairy winter state. Not nearly as bad as Chewbacca, but definitely not my warm-weather best. All of us have bedtime garb preferences, no? Mine is none. Thank you. I hate nightgowns that get twisted up and make me feel like a trussed beast. I hate tee shirts and panties. I hate flannels unless I have the plague. I sleep au naturale, in the buff, nude, whatever you want to call it. All summer and all winter. I get too hot (not to mention static-y) with any sort of sleeping attire. This is how I am most comfortable in the land of zzzzzzzzz's. Bed should be as optimally comfortable as possible in Rachel-land. So what happens to me? I climb into bed with myself on Monday night, ready to settle in with the Carl Hiaasan novel I am reading. I get the covers arranged just so. I lay on my right side with my pillows properly fluffed. And I am not comfortable. I am horrified to find *I* am offended by my hairy state! The stubble on my legs is AWFUL! How could I have lived 33 years and never been bothered by this? How could I go through 6 months of winter each year and never address these heinous little machetes protruding so dangerously from each lower leg? It was a sad and sorry night that night. Tuesday morning, out came the trusty razor. What good is winter anyway?