Staring down at my body, I knew something was different compared to the other girls at school. I was only 10, going on 11, yet hairs poked out from the smooth skin on my legs. Soon, more hair sprouted in places I didn’t expect. At least not at that age. In school, I took to changing into my PE kit away from the girls in my class. ‘Why does no one else seem to have this hair all over their body?’ I wondered, pulling my tights off as I contorted my body to hide my legs. I felt like I was keeping a shameful secret.
On reflection, I realise that embarrassment came from societal pressures and misogyny — something that totally went over my 10-year-old head. In the early 2000s and 2010s, body positivity was, well, it wasn’t. Women with body hair? Nowhere to be seen. Flicking through a magazine or scrolling on Instagram in the early days, you’d be confronted with image after image of women with sleek, soft skin. The message was clear: to be considered attractive, women had to be hairless. Every inch of us. Perhaps that’s why I never noticed any hair on the other girls in the changing room.
Much to the delight of my schoolmates, who relished in whispered comments behind my back, I chose not to shave. I’d heard so many negative things about it, talk of shaving rashes and itchy stubble. Why would I opt in for that? Most days, no one saw my bare skin anyway, but things changed when I took up athletics.
Walking onto the field, I felt comfortable in baggy shorts and a vest, ready to compete. As I progressed, however, the expectations of what I wore shifted. ‘Put these on,’ my trainer said, handing me a pair of high-cut pants before a big competition. Staring at my new uniform in the changing room, I knew how exposed I would feel if I wore it. In athletics there’s an unspoken rule that if you don’t wear what you’re told — and shave to look good in it — you aren’t serious about the sport. Like, excuse me, how does body hair affect my performance? Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.
Despite the impact it had on my athletic career, I chose not to wear the uniform I was given. The double standards were (and are) infuriating. My male teammates continued to wear loose clothing — no one cared what they looked like, or how high the cut of their pants was. Meanwhile, for us girls, our heads raced with thoughts of bikini lines, waxing, wedgies. All of this while still focusing on training. It was exhausting.
Eventually the judgement got to me. I knew I stood out, and it was made clear to me that being ‘presentable’ mattered more than my actual talent on the field. I tried trimming to — in society’s words — ‘tidy myself up’, but it just wasn’t enjoyable nor did it leave me feeling comfortable in my skin. More importantly, I knew I wasn’t doing it for me, I was doing it for the approval of others.
Around the same time, I picked up my first book on feminism which gave me the push I needed to embrace my natural self. It wasn’t easy, especially combined with the judgement I already faced at school due to my sexuality. I had a boyfriend, but I was openly bisexual. This prompted people to brand me a ‘hairy lesbian’, as if my body hair was some kind of badge for being queer.
As much as I wanted to ‘be me’, it became increasingly harder to stick to my beliefs about body hair in my later teens because my boyfriend often pushed me to ‘be more feminine’ instead. The guys at school didn’t help either. They’d openly brag about refusing to date girls with body hair and make fun of anyone who didn’t shave. While no one said anything to my face, I knew what they said when I left the room. It sucked, and — although it makes my inner feminist now scream — there were times I couldn’t help but shave my legs, just to avoid the ridicule of others. But, whether my boyfriend liked it or not, removing my pubic hair was a line I wasn’t prepared to cross. It was too personal, too violating.
All the options.
When I started dating women, that pressure melted away. Distancing myself from the male gaze was so liberating. Queer women are generally more accepting of body hair, whether they choose to shave theirs or not. It feels amazing to be in relationships where my body isn’t scrutinised. Not that scrutiny of your body should ever be accepted. Regardless, I still hear women say things like ‘My boyfriend doesn’t care if I shave or not’. Well he shouldn’t. It’s your body!
I think more people are coming around to this perspective, thanks to social media, which has been a huge game-changer for body hair positivity. TikTok, in particular, has given people a platform to challenge outdated beauty standards and seeing others embrace their natural self online boosted my confidence even further. I know things have changed since I was a teen, but there’s still a lot of pressure to fit in with the mainstream. That’s why I post so openly about pubic hair and my decision not to shave it — I want to be the person I wish I’d seen when I was younger. If my content helps even one person, then it’s worth it.
To anyone struggling with societal pressures to shave or look a certain way, here’s my advice: you’re not alone. Embracing your natural body is one of the most empowering things you can do. It’s normal, it’s beautiful and it’s yours. Start small if you need to, but remember that your worth isn’t tied to how smooth your skin is. And, trust me, a life without itchy, ingrown hairs is the definition of bliss.
