Female body hair is not feminism. It’s just body hair.

It’s winter. I spent the summer challenging myself to like the look of my soft, hairy thighs because shaving my full leg takes too much time and irritation. I can’t afford the wax. I’m self-conscious, but I’m powering through. It all falls within the bell-curve. Most of the worlds population don’t know I exist, so why should I hate myself because I’m afraid someone might look at me with disgust?

I still sometimes look at myself in disgust, but powering through has forced me to see my grown woman body with love, appreciation and respect.  My partner turns to me, asks, “If you’d shave your legs for a gig, why won’t you shave them for me?” I’m quiet for a little while. I sigh. So that’s when I decided to stop shaving my legs for gigs, too. I realised that as much as the audience can’t see the orange winged liner I chose to apply on my eyes, they can’t see the downy hair on my legs either. And if they can? 

Get used to it. Trump is literally causing WW3 and someone like James Jordan is tweeting about how gross female body hair is as if it’s the most important thing in the world. 

Yeah, me neither.

I’m sure he expected me to bow to his argument in defeat. After all, he’s right. Kinda hypocritical of me to do it for someone else’s gaze, but not his, and after all, he is the most important person in my life. His gaze matters more than anyone else’s, and no body else’s matters a bit. I reply. “You love me as I am, yes? Well this is who I am. This is the most armpit hair I’ve ever seen on my body, period. Ever. From the moment it started sprouting, I was told to get rid. Nearly twenty years of my life, I’ve not seen my own body hair fully grown. I’ve never felt proud, or even just complacent about walking out of the door. I check myself constantly. Can they see it? Every day I look at the hair on my legs and question my femininity, all because society tells me to. Imagine looking at yourself every day and feeling disgust, a lack of sexiness and beauty, simply because you look the way you’re supposed to look.”

I think I have him there. “I understand all of this, and it’s a whole load of bullshit. But I just don’t find it as attractive. Would you not do it for me?” I only ever do it for him. That does matter to me. But how I see myself matters more. I sigh again. “I only ever do it for you. You’ve said yourself though, that you don’t believe women should look like pre-pubescent little girls, that anyone with a brain cell wouldn’t find a grown woman sexy with zero body hair on her body. When you tell me how I should look, which body parts are acceptable with hair on, and which aren’t, you’re censoring me. You’re choosing for me. At the end of the day, if you grew your beard, if you choose never to go for a run, that’s your choice. I love you still. I would advise you to stay healthy, but imagine if I asked you to shave your chest, your legs, what little hair you have on your arms. Because I don’t find you sexy or beautiful the way you are.” J is a reasonable, grounded person. I know he listens when I talk like this. It’s a discussion, never an argument. He really is the best person.  “I’m imploring you to question your masculinity and your privilege; society has told you that women are more beautiful without hair on their bodies. That is not something you believe. It is something you were conditioned to think. I was conditioned to believe that I was not beautiful the way I am. I refuse to spend another day hating my body, because hate is fear and the world wants women self-conscious and ashamed of themselves.” At the end of it, he tells me he loves me just the way I am. If I choose to stay the way I am, that’s fine. But I also reassure him that I will be waxing and then epilating, so that the hair that is fine and softer. But even that is a decision I’m making to cater to the worlds gaze. Believe it or not, this act of resilience is not an act of feminism, even though it’s definitely a part of the discussion. It’s purely my choice; I don’t want to live another day feeling shame about one more thing about myself. I am a grown woman, with curves and breasts and child bearing hips and dark hair all over my body. If I remove some it, I have to remove all of it.  If this disgusts you, then question why you feel that way. If you’re okay with hating yourself, go right ahead. But I absolutely refuse. Don’t give me that “talk to your friends about your problems,” or “let’s talk about mental health,” bullshit if you’re going to censor women, their bodies, and the daily mental health issues that arise from the shame that arises from inequality from the conversation. I only ever, ever removed my hair for the male gaze. Thought I’d never be sexy with it. So every morning I looked in the mirror, I hated the way I was born with my dark, beautiful hair that everyone complimented, because it meant the rest of my body was cast in the same shadow. My Mum recently apologised to me on behalf of her and my Dad for it. That made me sad. Even she thought my hair was something to be ashamed of. I thought she told me I was born perfect? My brother doesn’t have to worry. My sister neither, not really. She chooses to shave, but she’s never been as dark as me. Her choice, her body. But I can’t help but feel sad for all the women in my life that have to spent money, time and pain on hating themselves for the comfortable gaze of the many. 

At the end of the day, do you really mind it?

Or do you mind what everyone else feels about it?

Working in this industry makes it harder. It doesn’t make you a hard-core feminist artist just to have agency over your body. It just makes you a person. The core difference between someone who presents as male, and someone who presents as a woman, is that if that man chooses to shave, there’s no shame. We shrug, that’s their choice. The direct opposite, that same privilege, does not apply to us. Where’s my shrug, huh?  ALL I WANT IS A SHRUG. 

If I walk out onstage, having not shaved, I’ve apparently made a statement. Well I’m afraid I haven’t. I just didn’t shave my legs. Shrug it off. Now lets get to the music. The statement is there shouldn’t be a statement. 

*Shrug.*

James Jordan can go fuck himself.