Shaving Craving

Shaving Craving

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There’s nothing like a set of involuntary bangs to make you feel like Mother Nature has taken complete control of your life.

Anyone with a baby between six and 12 months old knows exactly what I’m talking about. When you’re pregnant, your hair grows in all lush and fluffy. It’s so slick and shiny it could butter bread. You intentionally toss your hair around and pretend it’s a huge nuisance when your hair elastic slides itself off your thick, glossy ponytail. Ugh, the inconvenience.

Then you have your baby, and all that luscious hair you were crowing about falls out. I don’t mean a strand here and a piece there. I mean it falls out in clumps the size of gerbils, horrifying you every brush stroke of the way. You begin to wonder if balding is another one of those terrible postpartum symptoms everyone hides from you. It is.

Just as you begin to accept your patchy look, Mother Nature meddles with your emotions by cuing your hair to grow in again. And it doesn’t come in modestly. It arrives similar to the birth of your baby—all proud with a thunderous and embarrassing burst as if to say, “Hey world! Look at me!”  

And all of a sudden, there you are with your involuntary bangs.

Not long after, you feel a lawless urge to shave them.

Well…maybe you don’t…but I do…

I’ve had a shaving craving ever since I was a little girl. Kids have all sorts of weird habits. Some kids eat stuff; some kids burn stuff. I shaved stuff. From kiwi fruit to teddy bears, if it arrived on the scene with fuzz, fur or hair, I arrived shortly after with a razor and some soap.

I shaved my face twice when I was little. The first time was when I was five. My mom made me mad, so I shaved my face…naturally. When she interrogated me about what I had done, I invented a lie that satisfied us both and we never spoke of it again.

The second time was when I was nine. The babysitter made me mad, so I dumped my yogurt down the crack of the kitchen table to keep him busy and off I went to shave my face…again. He panicked and convinced me I would grow a beard. I panicked and promised never to dabble in hair removal ever again.

That promise lasted for a year.

When I was ten, I decided it was time to shave my legs. Not the entirety of my legs—just the fronts. I have black hair…so it wasn’t long before my mother noticed my legs and their receding hair line. First she told me off then she sat me down with a girly razor and some shaving cream and taught me how to properly do my ankles and that weird bone that sticks out the front of your leg. And we never spoke of it again.

The craving didn’t end there. I donned a mushroom cut long past its heyday. Whenever the brush cut part on the back started to grow in, I’d sneak away with my razor and shaving cream and give it a good going over.  

So naturally, when I saw those clumps of unruly postpartum baby hair growing in around my face, I had the urge to get in there and do some pruning. I didn’t though. Nope. Instead I got pregnant and started the vicious cycle all over again.

SO here I am…with tufts of over-zealous baby hair growing in at a breakneck pace. The shine is back. The gloss is evident, but this time, I’m not throwing my ponytail around like I’m in a Jhirmack commercial. I wouldn’t dare be so brash when I know, come September, Mother Nature is going to have her cruel way with me again.

That is…unless… I put my shaving craving to good use and beat Mother Nature to the punch…

 

 

 

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