by Guest Poster #2
Becoming hairless from the neck downward is not an easy process. It requires time. It wastes water. If you're not careful, it can give you tiny cuts that somehow leave your shower or bathtub looking like a crime scene. And yet, hairlessness is something that I embrace with an almost religious fervor. Unfortunately, like some religious zealots, I judge those women who choose to follow a different doctrine. I wonder how they can possibly feel beautiful with their hairy legs and armpits. I lament that they could be so attractive if only they would shave. I inwardly shudder at their prickliness.
And then, I feel disgusted with myself. I'm well aware that it's wrong and misogynistic to connect a woman's beauty with the amount of body hair she has. I know that traditional standards of beauty are arbitrary, unrealistic, and damaging to women’s self esteem. But for some reason, this knowledge is not enough. No matter how hard I try, I can't make myself believe it.
Am I still allowed to call myself a feminist? After all, I do truly believe that women and men deserve equal rights, equal paychecks, and equal respect. I believe that a woman should be able to hold any job she wants, that no means no, and that catcalling is a form of sexual harassment. I am genuinely hopeful that Hillary's Clinton's 2016 presidential bid will be successful. Nevertheless, as soon as a woman's physical appearance is called into question, I can't help but align myself with the standards set by the likes of Victoria's Secret. Long hair. Large breasts. Skinny legs. And, of course, skin smooth as silk. That, to me, is beauty, as much as I hate to admit it.
The thorniest question of all is this: What, if anything, should I do about my opinions? It would be so easy to say that they are simply preference, which everyone has and is entitled to. But the truth is that preference ends and sexism begins when I think negatively about those whose preferences differ from mine. I could tell myself that my views aren't my fault. I've simply been indoctrinated by the media. But acknowledging my own lack of independent thought is hardly comforting, and moreover, doesn't absolve me of responsibility. I could tell myself that my particular brand of sexism isn't hurting anyone. After all, I've never berated another women for her choices, and I don't walk around with signs that say, "My smooth legs are better than your hairy ones!" But I certainly have said something like, "I really need to shave. I feel so hairy and gross!" I've thereby formed a link between hairiness and grossness in my own mind and in the mind of anyone who hears me.
For me, this connection seems too strong to ever be broken. I can't force myself to find hairy legs attractive. I've placed too much importance on hairlessness for far too long. For others, however, the association between hairlessness and beauty may not yet be so clear. My best hope, then, is to outwardly refuse to support this link that society has created. I'll keep my razor close and my mouth shut. I'll shave my legs in silence and leave the indoctrination to the media. That is all I can do.
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And then, I feel disgusted with myself. I'm well aware that it's wrong and misogynistic to connect a woman's beauty with the amount of body hair she has. I know that traditional standards of beauty are arbitrary, unrealistic, and damaging to women’s self esteem. But for some reason, this knowledge is not enough. No matter how hard I try, I can't make myself believe it.
Am I still allowed to call myself a feminist? After all, I do truly believe that women and men deserve equal rights, equal paychecks, and equal respect. I believe that a woman should be able to hold any job she wants, that no means no, and that catcalling is a form of sexual harassment. I am genuinely hopeful that Hillary's Clinton's 2016 presidential bid will be successful. Nevertheless, as soon as a woman's physical appearance is called into question, I can't help but align myself with the standards set by the likes of Victoria's Secret. Long hair. Large breasts. Skinny legs. And, of course, skin smooth as silk. That, to me, is beauty, as much as I hate to admit it.
The thorniest question of all is this: What, if anything, should I do about my opinions? It would be so easy to say that they are simply preference, which everyone has and is entitled to. But the truth is that preference ends and sexism begins when I think negatively about those whose preferences differ from mine. I could tell myself that my views aren't my fault. I've simply been indoctrinated by the media. But acknowledging my own lack of independent thought is hardly comforting, and moreover, doesn't absolve me of responsibility. I could tell myself that my particular brand of sexism isn't hurting anyone. After all, I've never berated another women for her choices, and I don't walk around with signs that say, "My smooth legs are better than your hairy ones!" But I certainly have said something like, "I really need to shave. I feel so hairy and gross!" I've thereby formed a link between hairiness and grossness in my own mind and in the mind of anyone who hears me.
For me, this connection seems too strong to ever be broken. I can't force myself to find hairy legs attractive. I've placed too much importance on hairlessness for far too long. For others, however, the association between hairlessness and beauty may not yet be so clear. My best hope, then, is to outwardly refuse to support this link that society has created. I'll keep my razor close and my mouth shut. I'll shave my legs in silence and leave the indoctrination to the media. That is all I can do.
Don't forget to subscribe!