Tag Archives: valentine’s day

Happy National De-Hair Your Entire Body Day

So, Valentine’s Day is coming up.

(And in case this font isn’t getting it through, that above statement should be read sarcastically).

Or, as I like to call it for us women, National De-Hair Your Entire Body Day.

Yes, every morning on February 14, or perhaps the night before (or for those of us who are in longer-term relationships, five days before followed by a brief shower inspection followed by the sentiment “screw it, the stubble isn’t that bad”), women across this great nation of ours will waste countless hours and hard-earned money systematically removing every single hair that is not in an approved zone on their face or body. To wit:

Hair approval

And may I present Exhibit B:

Hair approval 2

And just as a reference point, here are all the approved hair zones on men:

Hair approval 3

Now, I’ve always hated Valentine’s Day. But it wasn’t until recently I think I pinpointed exactly why (I mean, other than the whole “it’s a horrific commercialization of a real sentiment created to make people spend money on crappy singing stuffed bears that their partner won’t know what to do with the other 364 days of the year and a faux holiday that means you will spend two hours waiting for a seat at a stupid restaurant neither one of you really wants to be at anyway surrounded by other stupid couples who are pretending they want to be there too” thing).

It’s because Valentine’s Day, by its very nature, expects me to be in a loving mood and sex-ready at all times that day. And sex-ready means de-haired. And de-haired means I shave, tweeze, wax and bleach 80 percent of my face and body. And after that incredibly not fun ritual, I’m supposed to be in a romantic mood. Except I’m not. Because everything is stinging and I have a razor cut on my ankle that refuses to stop bleeding and is currently filling my shoe up with blood. But no, please, feed me another strawberry in front of the fireplace, jerk.

See what I mean? I hate this stupid day.

Of course, I can’t blame all of this on Valentine’s Day. We women are expected to do these de-hairing rituals throughout the entire year. And I, for one, think it’s more than about time we really examine just how ludicrous this whole thing is.

I mean, we’re the only creatures on earth that expect this from our female species. For instance, a male monkey doesn’t tell his monkey wife “Hey, there is no way in hell I’m ever going to do this, but I really need you to take a sharp instrument and remove all the hair on your legs every few days, m’kay?” A male dog doesn’t expect his bitch (it’s accurate, simmer down) to bleach the hair above her lip and pluck, one by painful one, about 35 percent of the hair directly above her eyeballs. And I have yet to hear of a male bear telling a female bear before sex, “Hey, you know what would make this way more appealing to me? If most of the hair surrounding your sensitive lady parts was cruelly ripped out from its roots, all except for a small rectangular patch centered directly above your vagina. Yeah. That’d be hot.”

Not to mention, standards of beauty are always changing. Look at any old painting. Chubby chicks were all the rage. And now we love the “I haven’t eaten in six years but also I’m toned” look. Having a sun-kissed “oh, I just got back from Cabo” tan was in for what seemed like forever until “Jersey Shore” gave us a reality TV funhouse mirror to look in and we all realized that no one looks good with an orange skin tone. And you can’t throw a pair of scissors these days without hitting some woman who has burned all the old pictures of her with the “Rachel” haircut.

So, the only question left is, when the hell is this trend going to die? When can women run around in their natural, hairy state completely free and uninhibited? And, dare I say, even considered sexy, hairy toes and all?

I say we ladies make a stand. Burn our lady Bics and march on Washington! The Million Hairy Ladies March! Damn the Wax! Save the Follicles!

Because if we all do it, all stop removing our hair, all at the same time, we can take away the stigma that generations of weird, hippie chicks who have a pet chicken have given to the Free Hair Movement.

So who’s with me!?! Huh!?!

Because, seriously, trust me, you don’t want me being the poster child of this movement by myself. Cause when I don’t shave, I look like the love child of a hairy Persian man and a female gorilla who has had testosterone injections.





Valentine’s Day, Schmalentine’s Day

If my husband was married to a different sort of woman, chances are he would dread the month of February every year. Not only is Valentine’s Day coming up, but our wedding anniversary is on Feb. 28.

In ‘guy’ world, that’s like the ultimate double whammy.

Luckily, however, he is married to me, a woman who hates V-Day and was perfectly OK with celebrating our first wedding anniversary last year by going apartment hunting and was then thrilled when it ended with a signed lease. Perhaps I’m just unsentimental, but to me, not being homeless was a way better gift than, say, a scented candle.

I’ve never really been into all the hoopla surrounding Valentine’s Day. Even as a kid, I never understood why myself and my 24 other classmates were forced to give cards featuring cartoon characters to each other. I didn’t really want Bobby L. to “BEE MINE” and yet I still had to sign my name to that card of the bee hugging the honeycomb.

See, even back then I had an idea of how Valentine’s Day forces romance into one-size-fits-all, cookie cutter, pink and red decorated box. It’s a completely insincere holiday disguised as supposedly the most romantic day of the year.

Call me a cynic if you will, but I don’t find tasteless, chalky candy with generic messages such as “Luv U” and “Tweet Me!” and singing teddy bears romantic. Nor do I find waiting in line for an hour at a restaurant where my husband and I can split an appetizer, entree and some dessert called “Lover’s Brownie Delight” for only $20 romantic.

But it’s not like I’m some cold robot or some weird emo girl who finds scabs sexy. I’m still a red-blooded American girl who cries at “Love, Actually.” It’s just that what I find romantic is my husband emptying the dishwasher before I wake up in the morning and then coming home with vodka, cheeseburgers and a stack of books he thought I’d like that he grabbed from the free book table at work under his arm. And then he tells me I look hot in my sweatpants.

When I asked my husband what he found romantic, he said “Um…I like it when you cook me dinner. And there was that one time* you folded my laundry. That was pretty romantic.”

*Domestic goddess I am not

And that’s the thing. Every person has a different idea of what they find romantic. In fact, when I did a brief survey of my female family and friends about what they find romantic, not a single one said “roses, chocolates and going to a restaurant where I can’t pronounce half the menu.”

For example, my friend Michelle said “Random little surprises of things I love but don’t buy for myself. Tj [her husband] doing the laundry. And holding hands.”

My cousin Carrie, a married mom of two, said “Love notes and doing something that he doesn’t want to do but does it happily, like taking a walk or playing card games at a cafe. And anything that would actually take some thought or effort.”

My friend Kimberly, a newlywed, said “A kiss goodbye and a kiss hello when I see my husband. That my parents still dance together to the radio after 38 years of marriage in the living room. And that my grandpa would pick my granny wildflowers every spring until he could no longer drive.”

My former co-worker Allison said “I’d say taking goofy little excursions together-even if they aren’t to ‘romantic’ places. Just being alone together, making memories and having fun.”

And my friend Misty perhaps summed it up best when she said “Anything that has been personalized, like not red roses but your favorite tabloid magazine and your favorite wine or whatever you’re into. Also, anything that’s ‘just because’ and hasn’t been prompted by a birthday, anniversary or holiday.”

See, fellas, we know you feel obligated to buy us worthless crap on Valentine’s Day. But it doesn’t have to be that way. While there are some women out there who really do want pink and frilly and mass-produced consumer products on Feb. 14, in more cases than you would think, cleaning the kitchen and dancing with us in the living room on Feb. 15 will get you more points than giving us a box of chocolates on the day before.

(FULL DISCLOSURE: We will still eat the chocolates though…probably all in one sitting).