Like Rachel McAdams, I don’t shave my armpits – why does that offend you?
Give growing out your leg and pubic hair a go, too. It might just become your new favourite part of yourself
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Your support makes all the difference.Most of the time, like Rachel McAdams, I don’t shave my armpit hair.
The times that I do, my motivation is usually because it’s grown a bit long and starts to stick to my arms, which I find irritating because it tickles. I’m actually not that hairy per se, but I can grow a great crop of armpit hair. I like my pubic hair, too – and I don’t remove much of that, either. But why is that so controversial?
When I was about 11, I longed for my hair to grow as a sign of my upcoming womanhood – and apart from a few years in the late 1990s, where a friend convinced me that I should try waxing it into various shapes, I’ve actively avoided engaging with the hair removal routines widely available.
Sometimes I have hair on my legs, sometimes I don’t. It all depends on how I feel. It’s a bit like the way that sometimes I wear heels and make up, and others I wear an oversized hoody that is fraying at the hem. This endless commentary on women and what they do – or don’t do – with their bodies; what we put on or inside us, seems to me to be the lowest form of engagement we could have with anyone. I can’t quite believe it’s headline worthy.
I started to go grey at about 27. I also became quite obsessed with finding and removing the stray greys – but I soon got bored of that, as they multiplied fast. I started dyeing my hair to look like its natural colour instead. And I did that for about 13 years, until lockdown. That’s when I thought, sod it – and dyed it pink, instead.
After a home bleaching, my hair was pretty ruined and a chat with my mum about ageing and acceptance made me rethink my approach. Was I dyeing my hair for me, or for others? I realised that it wasn’t for me anymore, so I just let it grow out naturally. It’s been commentary-worthy from friends and strangers alike.
It’s been a journey getting used to my own hair. At times, I’ve felt the need to explain it. I had to trust my instincts over what society seems to push onto me about how – as a woman – I should treat my hair. Hair, it seems, is incredibly emotive. Hair inspires conversation. Hair can be a statement about yourself. Hair can, and I’ve experienced this myself, offend and frustrate and confuse other people to whom the hair does not belong. If you can’t grow hair, that’s a problem for people too: the mockery of a bald man has been going on for far too long.
I say, give hair a chance. At least once. If it’s not what you like on your body then no problem, remove it. You do you. But at least give it a try to find out what it’s like.
It might grow silky and thick (and remarkably, for me at least, still brown) under your arms; thick enough that you can twiddle it around your finger while thinking over a decision – or maybe you’ll enjoy having it stroked when in a moment of tenderness with someone.
While you’re at it, give leg and pubic hair a go too. It might surprise you and become your new favourite part of yourself. But whatever your hair choices are, please respect that others have different ones – and they are all valid if they make you feel more like you.
There is a liberation to be found in knowing why you make the choices you make about your body, whatever they are. You don’t need to justify them to anyone else – let alone have them commented on.