I hate shaving my legs.
I always end up looking like I've been attacked by rabid, bloodthirsty possums when it's all said and done. Unfortunately, women having hairless legs is one societal norm that I actually agree with and so it goes that I must grapple with the disturbing task of hair removal.
I am fundamentally against Nair (because not only does it remove hair, but also the first layer of skin) and laser removal seems like some vaguely Star Trek-ish form of torture. So that leaves razors.
I am a known danger with sharp and/or pointy objects. I sliced my finger open once while making guacamole and had to have 3 stitches, sewn in by a man who looked sort of like Steve Martin in Baby Mama, pony tail and all. (Seriously, guys, I can't make this stuff up). So it should come as no surprise that me + a razor = bloody disaster. As evidenced above, there is always carnage when I shave my legs. And regardless of the blood gore...there will ALWAYS be one strip of hair that I've missed. I've just gotten used to the whole thing now. I've accepted that I will never be good at shaving my legs and moved on.
And that concludes this week's segment of TMI. Tune in next week when I will discuss my chronic dry skin!
No comments:
Post a Comment