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:
And may I present Exhibit B:
And just as a reference point, here are all the approved hair zones on men:
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.