My adolescence marked the beginning of a painful struggle with body hair. Before puberty, I lived in a happy, carefree world where my only worry was how to properly untangle the long, curly hair on my head. Then there came the hair on my legs, under my arms, and on my genitals, plus all the troubles that went along with it.



First of all, I had to learn how to make it disappear. Choose a method: Is the epilator really worse than waxing? Does your hair really grow back thicker if you use a razor? I was very anxious and full of questions. Did I have to remove the hair on my thighs as well? (One friend told me "no, be careful not to,” while another said "totally, otherwise it's dirty." It was an awfully complicated issue and everyone had clear-cut opinions.) Even more complicated: How should I remove the hair on my genitals? I had to find a balance that was neither too "neglected" nor too "slutty" — in the words of my group of friends back then — and we all know that the line between these two is thin.

This took up a lot of my time and mental energy. I tried everything. To start, I had my first appointment with a beautician, a.k.a the nine circles of hell. I have never understood how a place that’s supposed to be so nice, where you can get a super-relaxing massage and you’re supposed to feel more beautiful, could be so awful and guilt-inducing.

Every time the beautician began to study the fleece on my little teenaged legs, she’d shake her head slightly in disapproval. And very often, she’d make a little comment: "Ah, yes, there is a lot." "Have you shaved since your last visit? It's obvious." And very, very, very often: “You have an ingrown hair. You must exfoliate once a week. You already do that? Then try twice a week. Exfoliation, it's important!" Despite all the trouble I went through to exfoliate my skin ever so thoroughly, I got the impression I was failing an important test in knowing how to be feminine.