Every other year, my husband and I and possibly the rest of the family, go somewhere warm to run away from the winter.
Every other year, I decide I should wax my legs so I don’t have to pack a cumbersome razor. (I’m always afraid I’ll get held at security for carrying a Venus.)
And having the hair of the two largest parts of my body ripped out by its follicles is humbling. Humility is a good thing.
It helps me realize vanity, especially painful vanity, may be a bad thing.
I think this again when, having not shaved for over a week because I need 3 weeks of growth for the complete stranger about to get to know me really well to see the unbelievably light hair on my legs, my husband decides we should go to the YMCA to teach our kids how to snorkel.
You would think I would care more about what people I actually know think about me with two weeks growth rather than what complete strangers in another country who I will never see again will think about my completely hairless legs.
But it truly isn’t about that.
I really don’t want to pack a razor.