I forgot to shave my legs this morning. I remember thinking as I was brushing my teeth that I should do them, and then I got in the shower and didn’t think about them again until I was sitting and my desk and it struck me that they felt a bit sandpapery. By which point it was far too late to do anything about it.
I do always feel self-conscious about the hair on my legs; it’s thick and dark and grows fast. Actually, I feel self-conscious about going bare-legged generally, probably because of the name-calling I had to endure at school for having hairy legs; I developed early physically but was emotionally fairly young for my age in a lot of ways, and as I read Doctor Who Magazine instead of Girl or Jackie I had no idea that I was supposed to remove the hair that had started growing on my legs, rather than just accepting it as I had had to accept growing breasts and starting my periods, until people started shouting at me in the playground to shave my legs. At which point, of course, I became dead set against the idea and brazened it out until the end of fifth year, taunting notwithstanding.
I still don’t much like shaving my legs, but these days I normally do them every couple of days in the summer. I don’t bother in the winter, when my legs are always covered, but I think depilation of some kind is pretty much de rigeur for anyone wanting to wear a skirt with bare legs in a professional context. So I suppose it is sort of a choice, but I think that choosing not to shave my legs would also mean choosing to wear trousers or opaque tights to work all summer, and as I don’t like trousers and tights would be far too hot shaving seems like the least bad option. And going to work with slightly stubbly legs today doesn’t appear to have had any dire consequences, though I really must remember to shave them tomorrow morning.