Believe it or not, there are certain joys to be had in menopause. One of them is the lack of hair growing on your legs. Of course, this is offset by the abundance of hair that now pokes out of your upper lip and chin, but since we must spend more time in front of the mirror managing wrinkles, it’s not that bad of a trade.
One of my areas of OCD is the fact that I can’t tolerate hair on my legs. Since the day I grew the first wiry sprouts on my appendages, shaving every other day was a necessity. To hell with being caught with dirty or ripped underwear if I was in an accident; I worried about being on the operating table with gorilla legs and pits. (Of course I do the pits every other day, too. OCD is an equal opportunity illness.)
I’d heard the rumors about hair reduction in relationship to period reduction. About six weeks ago, I decided to be brave and try an experiment. I gave up shaving my legs. No, I didn’t give up shaving the pits. It’s baby steps, you know.
I would feel my legs every day in the shower and marvel at the fact that there was no stubble. Hopeful that my Barbasol Beardbuster bill was going to go down, I gloated gleefully.
One day last week, I happened to be wearing my glasses while I was sitting on the edge of my bed, putting on my socks. I gave my legs a much closer inspection with the assist of my cheaters and I could only find three or four hairs on both legs, combined. Glory to God! Were these days finally behind me? Was I to be blessed with the silken smoothness I so craved, for all the days of my life? I was just about to believe the impossible had finally happened for me, when I glanced at my feet.
My disgusting feet. The tops and toes were covered with a thick fur coat of neglected to be shaved hair. They looked Neanderthal. Gorilla-ish. Italian.
Sickened beyond belief, I had to run back into the bathroom and shave for the next ten minutes, followed by a firm loofahing. I swear I will shave every other day until the day I die.