I don’t know how to shave. Where’s the manual that explains how to make sure I caught that last patch down by my ankles, or the huge mass of follicled friends jeering me while they sit atop my otherwise “silky smooth” calf.
It seems each time I climb out of the shower after practicing again that exhausting feminine rite, there they are, the escapees. The ones that always play peek-a-boo with the futile razor and lather, creeping up immediately after the threat is gone.
But everyone else seems to get it right. The model in that Victoria Secret catalog with smooth skin and a bikini line that seems like it was made that way, just like when she was five years old. As if the thought of course hairs sprouting was a foreign concept. Maybe they were airbrushed or Photoshop-ed, but how do you explain my peers?
They walk around sporting long legs in short shorts and mini-skirts, as if the ability to shave is a God-given talent, awarded simultaneously with hairy legs and silly societal values.
Who taught them? How much did it cost? I want an instructor too!
So many things we start out not knowing about and suffering the consequences is a treat, I am told. It’s a part of that first hand, learning the hard way is more effective thing.
Maybe I’ll stop shaving altogether and create a new ‘fuzzy’ trend. If I worked for Playboy then that could work out, but since I don’t I’ll just be ridiculed for not following the standards set by girl number 246 created on Page 40 of this month’s issue.
Trends, life, where’s the manual? Someone please teach me how to shave.

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