Readingground Blogazine

by Doug Paulson

I shaved my armpits last week. I’d never done that before and I can’t really tell you what compelled me to in that particular moment, other than the overwhelming sense of missing out on something wonderful. I’ve shaved my chest before, sure, as has any homosexual male my age, who at some point during the 1990s wanted to take his shirt off in a dance club and look all extra muscley under his sweat, the strobe lights, and some body glitter.

I shaved my leg once too, during a particularly frustrating fit of insomnia, which I’d chosen to treat with a bong hit. Yes, just one leg. Ultimately, the lack of hair made the whole thing appear fatter than before and I didn’t like that one bit so I abstained from subjecting the second leg to the same, unfortunate fate.

I’ve even gone so far as to participate in a modicum of “man-scaping” … as the Zeitgeisters are calling it these days. And sure, that’s pretty tough to say out loud, but I admit it. I admit it, so that I might cast the appropriate, profound light on my decision to finally lay waste the pit hair.

OK, I have trimmed it. Once or twice. To be fair, who wants it peeking out under the cuff of their short-sleeved shirt over a romantic dinner, say, or hanging around out in the open on a subway train, over the heads of those poor folk unfortunate enough to have chosen a seat beneath where you’re standing? …and you’re sweaty?

Gross.

So I’ve trimmed it, yes, and I’ve shaped it in ways that make my biceps look bigger when I flex, sure. Body-hair management has for a long time played a role in my endless quest for a more positive body image. Until now though, I’d never let myself go so far as to remove it entirely. I mean shaving your chest and a leg and your balls is one thing. Shaving your armpits is…well, really gay. Right?

The truth is I have an interestingly contentious relationship with my armpit hair. I don’t really like it. It’s long and it’s ugly. I believe this to be the result of a single exchange I had with a woman I worked with in 1996. It was a sunny, summer morning and I happened to be wearing a tank top. “Damn,” began her exclamation, “you gotta cut that shit!” I was horrified.

That was thirteen years ago. To this day, it’s only ever a very rare occasion I wear a tank top. Sadly, that insensitive woman’s harsh, if honest, words have had an unexpected and lasting effect. I have been scarred, by being made excruciatingly self-conscience about my armpit hair. I don’t like looking at it. It makes me anxious. It reminds me. It makes me feel bad about myself.

Even so, I have somehow always felt bound to it. Obligated. I, like all men, must have hair under my arms, right? That is our default; our very male essence. We wait for it when we’re kids and feel like grown-ups when it comes. We wear it like a badge of honor and testosterone. Removing it is near to castration, isn’t it? I have a drag queen friend who doesn’t even shave his.

Now, I am aware that there are a number of straight men who shave most (if not all) of the hair from their bodies. I’m thinking of competitive swimmers in particular, tri-athletes and the like. Bodybuilders, porn stars, you know. For them there is performance enhancing, professional necessity in its removal. This of course does not make them gay or render them girly. They are in fact the opposite: quite masculine. Strong. Manly.

I am not an athlete or a bodybuilder and had no real reason to shave in the first place so it kind of feels taboo, you know? Like a secret I should keep. Like shoplifting. Or drug abuse. Or being a porn star. It’s not something to be advertised. Like my mom said when I came out to her, “its okay you’re gay so long as you don’t tell everybody.”

Of course one trip to the beach this summer could be my undoing. Reaching to catch a Frisbee, giving myself away… what would people think?

And all of a sudden it hit me.

I am simply insecure about people, strangers and friends alike, taking notice of my armpit hair and becoming secretly disgusted by it, like I am by the morbidly obese and people with viscous skin conditions. Its unfortunate, yes, and perhaps a bit irrational, but it’s true. More than that, what’s beyond ridiculous, and wholly unacceptable is that I would concern myself with people assuming I’m gay because I shave it. I am gay. Duh. I’ve already come out. It’s a moot fear.

Well no more. I’m through with my stale, limited notions of gender identity and their influence over my underarm. I’m done living in a constant state of continued disappointment with how Mother Nature chose to dress me. I’m a proud homosexual whether I shave anything or not. What the hell does it all matter anyway? The truth will set me free, again. And you know what mom, this time I think I will tell everybody.

So here it is, my second coming out: I shaved my armpits last week and I love it. I absolutely love it. I don’t miss that damn hair one bit. I’m going to keep doing it. I have been so wrong. So wrong to deny myself this liberation. I will shed my tired prejudice. I am no less of a man for having done so. I have lost no strength and no pride. In fact I gain both in spades by proclaiming to the world that every day I grow more and more comfortable in my own skin.

Especially now that there’s more of it to see.