To Bic or Not to Bic--A Hobbit's Manifesto

I hear Summer breathing down my neck. How can I be sure it's Summer, you ask, and not Darth Vader or one of those smoosh-faced-dogs-that-slobbers-a-lot-and-breathes-like-a-chain-smoker? (Relax, dog lovers. I use the scientific nomenclature in the previous sentence only for the sake of journalistic accuracy. If it offends you, get your pug some help for his pack-a-day problem. That's what the Nicotine patch is for.) No, it's summer all right, even though the weather doesn't feel summery yet.  She taunts me, pressures me from behind with an insistent imperative: "Shave your legs already. This is America, not Hobbiton."  I love Summer, truly. But I wish she would back off a little. Why do I feel like I have to justify myself year after year?

Today I speak for the few, the proud, the stubbly--the bold women who find better ways to spend fifty bucks than having a leg wax and better uses of time than sitting on the edge of the bathtub with a razor in hand. Who first generated the commonly accepted equation Hairless=Feminine anyway? No doubt it was a man named Gillette or Barbasol with razors and shaving cream to sell. It probably dawned on him that his market would double overnight if he convinced the female half of the population that they needed to shave something, anything. And women bought into it--big time.

In spite of my strong inner-Hobbit and my latent hippie side, I buy into it more than I care to admit. At least half of me longs to be like my ninth-grade Social Studies teacher, Ms. Byars. She was young and hip and had a gift for generating stimulating discussion among twenty-five kids who had never heard of Anwar Sadat and thought Camp David was a summer rec program, but could recite a detailed biography of Mork from Ork. Ms. Byars made us think, but most of the buzz around school focused on her hair. Not the long russet curls on her head--no, we fixated on the tufts underneath her arms and the fur on her legs. Most days she wore batik skirts, often with a tank top. Unabashed by our whispers and stares, she lifted her arm to write on the blackboard or pull down the world map. I watched, amazed at her unapologetic "natural" look. She was sensational.

Sometimes I can pull off a Byars-esque confidence and reject the razor for a time. Especially in winter my Hobbitness asserts itself. Hobbits, you remember, are hairy little beings right down to their feet. They are content to stay at home (but surprisingly tough when cornered) with a crackling fire, warm meals, slippers, and their fuzzy extremities. That's me from November to March. Easy. I wear long pants in the winter anyway, right? Every Spring I vow not to bow to the arbitrary standard of feminine beauty established by the corporate marketing machine (hiss), but when the sun comes out my conviction crumbles. I cave to societal pressure and grudgingly buy the three-pack of shaving gel at COSTCO. Principle loses to peer pressure once again. Pathetic, I know. The only shred of rebel attitude that remains is this: I will not shave every day. Once a week. Period. OK, maybe twice if we're vacationing at the beach.

So if you see me at the pool with my Day-6 stubble, get over it. Respect my small hippie-hobbit act of defiance. Or try it for yourself, and tell your friends to break the shackles of smooth-legged servitude. Join me to lead a revolution! I have a dream . . . Give me your tired, your poor--your stubbly sisters yearning to breathe free . . . When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one woman to dissolve the bands which have connected her to her razor . . . We the women of the United States, in order to establish Justice, preserve sanity, and secure the blessings of Liberty from shaving . . . Somebody stop me. Don't feel compelled to join my crusade. I can assert my right not to Bic without fear of persecution. This is America. I'll wave my freak-flag alone--o'er the land of the free and the home of the shaved.

Photo credit: http://www.freefoto.com/images/1210/11/1210_11_58_prev.jpg