When I was 11, I was a textbook dweeb. At the time, I thought my shtick was very cute and clever for such a young kid. I was super smart, used a wheelie backpack at school and had the kind of glasses that turned into sunglasses when you stepped outside. These things made it challenging for me to fit in at summer camp. My camp was a predominantly sports-focused, with a much smaller selection when it came to the arts. There were arts and crafts, ceramics and of course, my favorite, drama — I was always more excited to see what play we would get to put on than I was to be benched during soccer.
While I may not have had all the athletic abilities of the other girls my age, one thing was for certain — we were all hormonal preteens. That’s right. We loved J14 magazine, had a crush on every single boy our age at our camp and dreamed of our first camp social in which we would stand on opposite sides of the room in our mini skirts from the Limited Too, telling our friends which boy we wanted to dance with, but were ultimately too shy to ask.
I noticed a trend amongst the girls my age that summer. We all felt the same way; we weren’t 10 years old anymore, so we were basically adults. Almost teenagers, ready to emerge out of our shells with padded bras and camisoles with rhinestones on them. It was time to start shaving our legs. First it was Lindsey, then Allie, and then Nikki… everyone was doing it. So where was my pink Venus razor? Why didn’t my mom prepare me for this moment in my life?
Campers couldn’t bring cell phones to camp and could only make outgoing phone calls when there was a serious emergency. The longer my barely noticeable leg hair got, the more it felt like an emergency, but I figured I would write a letter home instead.
“Dear Mom
Hi! I miss you so much. Camp is so awesome. My favorite activity is drama. I got the part of Snow White in the play and I’m soooo excited. When you come up for visiting day can you please bring Wheat Thins? Also I have a question. I want to shave my legs. Everyone is doing it and I think I should do it too. My legs are so gross and hairy and I want to do this. So can you send me a razor? All the other girls use Venus ones. And shaving cream too please.
Love you! Xoxo Montana”
I didn’t hear back from my mom for two weeks, and when you’re at a seven-week long camp, two weeks feels like the whole summer. Finally, my package arrived. I jumped for joy when I received the slip in my mailbox, and begged my counselor to take me to pick it up right after lunch. I couldn’t wait. My ticket to fitting in with the other girls was here, and it came in the form of a beautiful, sparkly, shiny pink Venus razor.
I followed the example of the other girls who were already leg-shaving experts. I grabbed a towel and a cup of water and went into the living room of the lodge I lived in. I joined in the group of girls already set up, ready to rid my body of hair and become and smoother, cooler 11-year-old. I wet my legs first, applied shaving cream to one and took a deep breath. The moment I waited for was here. I touched the razor to my skin and moved it upwards. I was a new person. Nothing in my 11 years of life seemed as important as this moment. I shaved my left leg, and then went on to my right. I almost achieved maximum smoothness when suddenly I saw blood. I was so careful! How could this happen? The other girls told me it was because I didn’t practice before, and I thought they were teasing me. I thought smooth legs meant that wouldn’t happen anymore, that I would be accepted because I did what they liked to do, too. But the scab forming on the back of my leg was another reminder at how trying too hard never got me anywhere.
Twelve years later, I hate shaving my legs more than almost anything. I abandoned the cup of water and towel method and moved on to shaving my legs in the shower, but I end up cutting myself nine out of 10 times I shave. I rarely show off my legs, and the hair just grows back the next day and feels gross. So why should I waste time doing something I don’t like to do if no one is going to see the final product anyway? Sure, I’ll shave my legs on occasion, like if I’m bored (that’s pretty much the only reason to be honest). In retrospect, I’m glad I figured out early on that I disliked the activity so much, but every time I go to the drugstore with my mom, she always likes to point out the pink Venus razors and ask me if I need a new one, knowing very well I’d rather never see one again..
