For Shame: A History of Body Hair

I’m always aware of how folks may perceive me based on my body hair. I wish that wasn't true.

Image by Helen Barth

The first time I thought about body hair was in the fifth grade, and it wasn’t even my hair. My classmates were lining up to go to gym class, where we’d be running laps and playing dodgeball. Summer in Jerusalem meant bright, bright light that shone through the bars on the windows and a severe heat emanating off the blacktop. We were all wearing shorts and pale-blue tees with the school logo on the front, chattering and laughing and generally making a lot of noise. Our teacher yelled over our ruckus. 

“Did you see her legs?” a girl behind me half-whispered. She wasn’t talking to me, but I could see where she was pointing. The girl in front of me in line had a thin layer of black fur on her shins. I’d never noticed it before. “She’s so hairy!” the voice behind me exclaimed. She burst into a peal of giggles and whomever she was speaking with joined in. I don’t know if my classmate heard them. That’s when the gym teacher blew her whistle and we all took off, running outside. 

That day, waiting in line on the tile floor of my grade school, I began to learn a lesson: Women shouldn’t be hairy, so if you have body hair that means you’re less of a woman. The best way to overcome this shortcoming? Get it the hell off you. Shave it, wax it, bleach it, burn it off with chemicals. Whatever you have to do to be clean. Even if that means being less of who you actually are.