I know I’m a couple of days early, but I’ll be honest with you guys: I’ve got some apprehension about the approaching month. Like all women, I am simply lost without the d; a lack of the d drives me to madness and despair, reduces me to nothing more than a mere shell of a
person woman (whoops, almost suggested that women are people). In fact, once a month I tell folks that I have come down with my period, when in reality I am simply curled up on my side in my bedroom, screaming, “The d! The d!” into the cruel, empty air. Why, just yesterday I turned to my vibrator, Bunny*, and said, “Oh, Bunny, what will I do? The internet decreed that women who participated in No-Shave November would bring about No D December, and I have, myself, taken part in this blasphemous behavior! Oh, woe! Oh, despair! Oh, the horror!” She buzzed ominously at me.
Just kidding; that’s all lies. I am a person despite my bedamned femality, I actually curl up and yell “FUCK MOTHERFUCKING SHIT FUCK WHO THOUGHT IT WAS A GOOD IDEA TO BUILD CUNTS THIS WAY,” on my period, and I’m about as afraid of No D December as I am of death by comically falling piano, which is to say not at all. It is true that I participated in No Shave November, with my legs, as a woman, but even that is kind of a lie of omission, because it implies that I stopped shaving my legs at the beginning of November, that I intend to start again at the beginning of December, and that I did so in the name of a cause.
Here’s the truth: from the beginning of September to the end of May, or sometimes the middle of June if it’s one of those years where summer comes late, I am rocking it monkey-style from the waist down. And let me be real clear here: I am not talking “long stubble,” I am not talking “occasionally skipping a few days with the razor,” I am not talking “light, feminine hair.” I am talking full-scale, balls to the wall, coarse-as-shit monkey fur. I will shave if I have to go to an event where dress pants are not going to cut it, and I will shave if I’m planning on fucking somebody for the first or second time**, but that’s it. Otherwise, I wear pants and enjoy the extra ten to fifteen minutes a day I don’t have to spend in the shower, the money I don’t have to spend on dude razors (yeah that’s right dudes, I buy your better sharper smoother razors and use them on my monkey fur leg hair, FUCK THE POLICE), and the happy lack of razor burn itching at inopportune moments. I love winter. I love winter so hard.
I’ll tell you something else, while we’re on the topic—I’m no model, but for better or worse I do qualify as conventionally attractive. Whatever hemp-wearing, guitar-toting, unwashed hippie festival follower you’re imagining, I’m not that girl (although, of course, no judgement to those folks—I am friends with several different versions of that girl, all of whom I have met at festivals, and they are all some of the best humans I know). I’ve got blonde hair and big tits, I clean up nice, and I have long since perfected the sort of walk that highlights my cute little ass; as a result of this, I’ve gotten a number of cat-calls over the years. And I’ll tell you what, dudes—a lot of those cat calls have happened between the months of September and late-May-sometimes-June, while I have been walking around with pants concealing my monkey fur. Dudes have, in fact, offered me the d whilst I was secretly unshaved! I know. The horror is overwhelming, right? Probably not as overwhelming as the horror of being offered the d by a total stranger in the middle of the day, but still. You just go ahead. Take a moment. Let that sink in. I’ll wait.