I sat in the bathtub staring at my lathered leg before I picked up my new Lady Schick. It cut through the soap and a clean strip of skin appeared. A moment later a red blob rose up on my shin. Blood trickled down and dripped into the tub.

At 13, I thought shaving would help me be a woman, so I began shaving in the seventh grade. Instead, it reinforced my ineptness. Would I ever measure up? My cool classmate, Candy Richards, shaved her legs. So did her friends, Susan Cunningham and Penny Otto. I knew that when they saw me, I would look stupid. I wanted to grow up — and grown women shaved their legs and their underarms.

Yet 50 years later, I no longer bother to shave my legs or underarms. Shaving may be considered good grooming in America, but it doesn't make a female inherently prettier. I sometimes run a razor over my hormonally-challenged chin, but that's it. My hair is much thinner and lighter than it used to be regardless — in fact, I could probably count the remaining strands.

I never made a conscious decision to stop shaving. I didn't do it for political reasons. I wasn't trying to flaunt my independence — I was just busy and didn't want to take the time. On top of that, I didn't want to drip blood on the bathmat or cover myself in Band-Aids. In all those years, I never developed the skill of shaving without nicking myself.

Thinking back, I probably stopped shaving regularly not long after I quit teaching to take care of my mother. I spent the next six years helping her with shopping, errands, transportation, mail, and the annoying voice messages that asked her to press 1 or 2. I sometimes helped her dress and undress. Most of her body hair was gone, too. I never asked her about it; it was a byproduct of aging, just like her growing dependence on me.

I know my husband must have noticed that I still have a bit of body hair scattered on my lower legs and underarms. He doesn't ask me to shave it though. We have other priorities when my legs are exposed (or wrapped around him).

Once, he noticed the hair protruding from the crotch of my swimsuit and suggested that I trim it. He didn't want me to "embarrass" myself. I said nothing, but I knew that the little body hair I had left could never embarrass me. Still, I tugged my suit down a bit. And guess what? When we got to the pool no one stared at my crotch.

Perhaps my husband doesn't ask me to shave now because he knows that I have fibromyalgia, and he understands that I don't need any more physical strain. The condition came on gradually four years ago before we met. First my joints ached. I could shave despite that, but I didn't bother very often. So what if I was a little lazy? No one would care. We pick our battles and shaving isn't one of them.

For a while, I covered my leg hair with long pants. When I wore Capri pants, though, I left my unshaved hair hanging in the breeze. It was the same place where any unsolicited, negative opinions could hang. Besides, an accepting and loving heart, plus the approval of the man I married at 62, made me feel prettier than smooth, hairless legs ever did.

And what's wrong with hair, anyway? God gave me that hair. Why was I shaving it away and pretending it didn't exist? Was it really that ugly? Did it scare people to be reminded that humans are a species of animals? I wasn't rationalizing. I simply took charge of caring for my body instead of surrendering to cultural expectation. It was a no-brainer.

If sweat starts to bead up on the hair under my arms, I'll shave, but that hasn't happened in years. If the little hairs on my chin are visible, I'll run a razor over the dry surface as quickly and discreetly as possible. I'm grateful to say that I have better things to do with my time. Today, the only time I'll walk down the shaving aisle is to buy Gillette razors for my husband.

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