Wednesday, December 10, 2008


I am 53. I was lucky enough to live through the 60's and 70's period of feminism where we could go bra-less (this is before I had children and could get away with that), wear pants (which were not allowed in my school system until I was in high school) (and then jeans weren't allowed until I was a senior and then even the teachers joined us in a strike to wear jeans) (but then again jeans were not allowed at the third... wait a minute, fourth college I went to) (man, I guess I need to do a blog just about wearing blue jeans, right?)...

Where was I?

Oh, yeah, feminism.

But to me, one of the BEST things about being a liberated woman in the 60's was NOT SHAVING MY LEGS.

I realized at a very, very young age that once you began shaving your legs, you were screwed for life and had to keep it up.

And since I was a sort of medium brunette, in Southern California, and running around in shorts constantly, I definitely could get away with it. Light fuzz stood up to anything other than close inspection, and believe me, there wasn't anyone close enough to inspect anything until college.

I gave in eventually to this archaic American custom - actually, I think only after I joined the Church and began wearing skirts and dresses on a regular basis - and began to purchase razors and lotion and disposables (which, if you can believe it, were first patented in 1901 - so why the hell did they take so long to get made for women at an affordable price?).

However, regardless of the (let's see, 53, minus 14, plus six years liberated, carry the one) 33 years of habitual if not reliably shaving from at least the knees down, I have never learned two important lessons; namely



So, needless to mention, I have slipped a lot of blood. I have scars, to this day, of slicing off skin instead of hair.

Please, somebody, buy me a good, reliable electric razor for Christmas.