The body hair secret I discovered in my 40s
“You could always wax them”
This was the response given by two of my 40-something friends after I complained, recently over drinks, about how much I’ve always hated shaving my pits. The hatred stems from the obvious pitfalls (pun intended) of shaving. There’s the physical discomfort — the yanking of the skin, the endless knicks, the sting of deodorant as I inevitably apply it too soon — along with the frustration of never getting a close shave. Their best is a five o’clock shadow, and unlike George Clooney, they will not wink and smile back.
So, upon hearing the word “wax” used in reference to my pits, I died on the inside a little. It wasn’t the answer I wanted to hear — not for my sake, nor the sake of middle-aged women everywhere. In this age of body positivity and self-care, is hair removal for women of our generation a conscientious choice, or just another female obligation we’ve grudgingly accepted?
Instead of waxing, I let it grow
At first, it was liberating, if not a little surprising (damn, my pit hair is thick!). I let my leg hair grow, too, and I was happy, relieved, and grateful knowing that I could have the gall to do this in my forties. And yet, when I wore a tank top or shorts, I felt super self-conscious. When we buck the status quo, that comes with the territory.
Still, I have to call out the women of our generation a bit — including myself: In my experience, for women our age, the choice to grow body hair is accepted on an intellectual level. “You do you,” said one of my friends at the table — but not without a hint of side-eye, judgment, and slightly indignant recoil. Many of us are still grossed out by it, aren’t we? A little dismissive? I say this because I’ve seen it in my friends, but also in myself.
Even as a person who barely shaves anymore — and who’s all for body positivity, gender fluidity, and inclusivity in the beauty industry — I’m still conditioned to see my body hair as unattractive. Too thick, too long, too masculine, too this, too that. As my ten-year-old daughter will tell you, I’m a total hippo (as in hypocrite).
And despite the way changing beauty standards and middle age have made me freer about not shaving, I’m not immune to judgment from my peers — or from myself.
We were raised this way
As a 45-year-old cis female with many similar friends, I’m aware that hair removal is a big part of our lives. We’re no Gen Z. Many of us went to high school in the ’90s at the time when Riot Grrrl was in full swing, but those waves certainly didn’t hit every shore. And some of us didn’t like that kind of music, which might have alienated us from its big-picture feminist values, even if we agreed with them.
What if feminist texts never found us at that age? Or if we were never blessed with a free-spirited role model who challenged our blossoming notions of femininity?
I went to an all-girls Catholic high school in a conservative nook on the Northwest side of Chicago. Everyone I knew shaved. Leg and armpit hair on a girl was considered “disgusting.” And because we all pranced around in rolled-at-the-waist uniform skirts, if you were disgusting, everyone knew it. (Unless you wore tights. Thank god for tights!)
The only exception to the rule was my French teacher Ms. Frings. We accepted her because (a) she was super cool; (b) it was very clear she didn’t give a merde what we thought of her; and (c) Ms. Frings was literally from France-French (of course, she was!). And French we were not.
The first time I saw a woman my age with leg hair was in college in the late ‘90s. She was a punk-looking art student, and all I wanted to do was stare. Despite my relatively conservative surroundings, I’d always idealized famous women who don’t care what people think (or at least appeared to not care) — Annie Lennox, Madonna, Georgia O’Keefe — but not the un-famous ones, apparently.
Seeing that hairy-legged student, I had so many thoughts I’d been trained to think. Disgusting! Who does she think she is? But also, I wish I could be like her. So, when I finally stopped shaving, I felt emboldened by the way middle age allowed me to catch up with that cool young art student — to an extent.
Shaving as self-care
I’m not here to poo-poo my waxing friends, or to condemn anyone’s shaving habits. I get it. For many of us, hair removal is unquestioned, expected, and deeply entrenched in our hygiene routines. I Sally-Hansen my mustache every six weeks, and I probably always will. Many of us are fully aware of the capitalistic, patriarchal roots of women’s shaving in the 19th century and either don’t care, prefer to shave, and/or acknowledge that it’s too late — we’re too used to it.
Or maybe shaving truly is an act of self care. As one beauty editor with an excess of body hair due to PCOS writes, “For some, choosing not to remove body hair, excess or otherwise, can be empowering, liberating. For me, nixing those uncomfortable wiry hairs every morning is … satisfying.”
Maybe you just love the feel of your own smooth and sexy legs. I accept all of it. After all, shaving is a very historically human activity, reaching back to the 4th century BCE when solid gold and copper razors were immortalized in Egyptian tombs.
But let’s take a moment to contemplate our hair removal experiences
For me, shaving has always felt mildly violent. Something about the anatomy of my upper body makes my pits deeply cavernous, and until the conversation with my friends, I didn’t even realize that not every armpit is built like mine. I asked them, “You mean you don’t have to pull your skin over and out in order to plow the vast depth of your armpit crotch?”
“Nope,” one friend said, sipping her negroni through a straw. “The hair is just there.” Wow, I marveled. The hair is just there.
I don’t presume shaving is a dream for those whose “hair is just there.” But I do imagine that shaving comfort might have something to do with how you’re physically built. If you’re deeply pitted like me (or even if you’re not), you might agree that shaving feels like running a freshly sharpened lawn mower over a grassy mountain.
We owe it to ourselves to ask how we’re feeling in the moment of shaving, waxing, or lasering. Does the process feel like genuine self-care? Does it bring satisfaction or even pleasure? If so, right on. But on the other hand, do you find yourself supremely annoyed by the discomfort or pain? Resentfully obligated? Do you go numb or tune out, just a bit, while going through the motions?
Maybe it’s a little bit of all of the above. In that case …
Why not find a middle way?
I could choose to shake off the judgment and stand firm in the light of my liberation, in the dark of my armpits. I could toss away all my products and tools and commit to letting my body hair grow. But honestly, I find telling myself, “I don’t shave,” just as oppressive as “I always shave.”
So, I’ve found an approach that suits me even better, at least for now. I’m taking the brilliant middle way of hair removal and going shave-optional, which includes the option to trim. In the early 20th century days of shaving, some women partook only in the summer months when they wore less clothing. Genius! And the option to use my little Remington Wet and Dry to give my hairy armpits a sweet summer (or whenever) haircut means no razor burn, no ingrown hairs —also genius.
My armpit hair, when fully grown, is a little thick and long for my taste, so what a joy it is to prune it without slicing myself up. Seriously! As for my legs, I mostly don’t shave them in the winter, but in the summer, I like the look of a pedicure with sandals and hair-free legs, so that’s what I do.
A challenge for the hair-phobic
I would never expect anyone to forego hair removal or judge them for choosing to be hair-free. But I do challenge women of my generation to reframe their perspectives on body hair. To retrain their eyes to see a wiry pit or a fuzzy leg on themselves and others as normal, natural, and maybe even sexy (if they don’t already).
Spend a little time with the Januhairy campaign. You don’t have to make yourself see it as attractive, just see it. Get used to it. If you recoil at the sight of women with body hair — and I won’t lie, sometimes I still clutch my pearls a little — sit with the feeling. Question your reaction, and the urge to dismiss it as disgusting, if that’s what comes up. Because body hair isn’t inherently disgusting or beautiful — it just is. It’s how mother nature made you, baby.
This girl is on fire
In closing, and in the spirit of how going “shave-optional plus trim” has made me feel, I share with you a story I read in Glennon Doyle’s 2020 book Untamed about Alicia Keys, who in 2016 famously declared herself make-up free.
While working as a judge on American Idol, her fellow judge Adam Levine of Maroon 5 walked into her dressing room to find her putting on lipstick. “I thought you didn’t wear make-up,” he said (in my mind rather smugly). Without batting an eyelash — perhaps coated in mascara — she replied, “I do what the fuck I want.”
