Is Anyone (Really) Looking?

Hallelujah! It's springtime! Bright colors and lighter fare are making their way back onto the scene as summer wardrobes come out of the closet. Hello, spaghetti straps and mini skirts!

I adore this time of year, but even I must admit there is a dark cloud that hangs over my head: My winter habit of only shaving once a week doesn't cut it anymore.


This is not to say I am anti-shaving. Far from it. No hippy, I embrace the sensation of a soft breeze on my smooth, freshly shorn calves. I get great satisfaction from watching row after row of shaving cream disappear under my razor and seeing the tiny hairs in the blades before I rinse them off for another go. The whole pruning and preening process is a balm.

The problem is it simply doesn't occur to me to shave my legs until I'm already halfway through my shower. By the time I realize "gee, things sure are getting prickly," I would have to get out of the shower – dripping water all over the floor – and reach into the medicine cabinet to fish out the necessaries – inevitably knocking several things over in the process – before returning to the shower cold and shivering. To tend to my cacti would take a dire hair situation and I often find myself thinking it can wait another day.

But when I consult my closet for the day ahead, I want to wear something spring-like, something festive, something short. To encase my legs in a shroud of long pants on such glorious days as these seems a travesty. I know what's going on below my knees and I know it isn't pretty, but would anyone really notice a few millimeters of stubble?

I take the risk and for the most part I'm OK with my decision. I only wither when I imagine heads swiveling to look at the ogre – as if everyone else in the world has a spider sense and can spot my grotesque overgrowth from blocks away.

I fight the urge to exclaim, "Look away! I'm hideous!" After all, the only time I check out other people's legs is when they make the cardinal mistake of confessing they haven't shaved. Then, of course, I look. One must in those situations. Anyone who has the poor judgment to confess such a thing may as well hold a giant red arrow pointing directly at her calves. Usually I find myself shrugging and thinking, "I've seen worse."

If I keep quiet, maybe I can get away with hiding my hairy secret in plain sight. Perhaps no one is looking. Or perhaps I'm only fooling myself. If so, hopefully you've seen worse, too.