This Is War

Back in the day, as Adam and Eve frolicked in sin on the periphery of the Garden of Eden, freshly unhindered by the advice of God, Adam made a simple request of Eve - that she banish her leg hair.  She accepted, and this frankly preposterous request was granted.  

At least, that’s how I imagine it happened.  

I remember watching the CBBC classic, ‘Cavegirl’ at the tender age of about 12.  In one episode, the main character, a young woman sporting classic cave-age attire (a short leather shirt and fur crop-top), and imaginatively named Cavegirl, was sat drawing a sharp-edged rock along the length of her legs.  ‘What are you doing, Cavegirl?’ asked Stiks the Saucy, her male counterpart.  ‘Scraping my legs, of course!’ she replied.  

Women’s hair removal has become as ingrained into Western society as brushing your teeth twice daily or slicking on a layer of deodorant in the morning; to question or disregard the act invokes a reaction of disgust and appal in those around us.  And so, shackled by the cultural norm which we ourselves have refined, we just get on with it.  So imagine the dismay of those with sensitive skin, who must ritually battle the omnipresent fuzz regardless of inflammation, itching, or unsightly in-grown hair.

A woman's unhindered, smooth legs waving nonchalantly.

In the past - during periods where there was no boyfriend to speak of, and when unlikely to be leaving the house - I have gifted my skin some respite, allowing the hair on my legs to grow wild and free.  That was until the last time when, as I casually watched t.v. at home, my feet up on the settee and my pyjama bottoms exposing a small amount of leg, my brother visibly recoiled proclaiming, ‘that is disgusting, Laura!’, his own coarse leg hair swaying brazenly below his shorts.

I have tried EVERYTHING.  Shaving, waxing, hair removal creams, epilating (ouch), and to no avail.  My pale complexion coupled with sensitive skin has meant that throughout my teenage years and early 20’s, I have been unable to expose my bare legs.  Ever.  Whilst more fortunate girls whipped on a summer dress and sandals, I was left sweltering in leggings and socks.  Which is why, at the ripe age of 23, I am declaring war.

Earlier this afternoon I had my first consultation for laser hair removal, and I cannot wait to get started.  It will take eight treatments, four weeks apart, and will banish 90% of hair.  Pricey it may be, but the promise that in eight short months I will be freed from the clutches of unwanted leg-hair, and at liberty to unleash a couple of smooth citizens upon the world is simply too great...  Where do I sign?!