If I were a farmer and my legs were the field and my razor was a combine - I'd leave half the crop in the ground.
When I was a teenager and I was finally allowed to shave my legs were as smooth (and white) as a cue ball. Every. Single. Day. I lived to shave and I shaved to live. Looking back, I think I would have sooner died than found a errant hair on my long, light legs.
This is how I know I'm getting old.
Old ladies have hair. Hair springing out of places it's got no business sprouting.
And young girls, young girls think they'd rather die than live through some bodily embarrassment.
This summer, I'd catch a glimpses of whole rows I'd missed. Or even worse, the wind would blow and I swear I could feel it tickling the inside of my left calf. Like a
yep, just like a tree in the wind.
So tonight I was yapping on the phone and flopped down on my bed and lifted my right foot to my left knee and the light from the bedside lamp shown brightly against my leg to reveal a backlit FORREST. I have long hairs around my ankles and on the top of my foot that make stare and cringe. Kind of in awe.
My grandfather raised hogs, wheat and cattle in rural Kansas. That man never left money in the ground. He'd measure once, sickle twice. Okay, I know. I'm human. It's part of the deal to have body hair. But it's my crop and I'm not getting it all when it's time to reap. Not anywhere close.