The summer I was sixteen, a boy I had a crush on, leaned over and ran his hand up my leg. “Smooth. I like that.” From that point on, I have been vigilant to shave every day. I have been known to run into the bathroom in the middle of a date and ghetto shave in the sink if I even thought I was about to get naked with someone. I have also been known to do this when alone. I can’t handle having hairy anything. So imagine my horror when I discovered you can’t shave your legs in a psychiatric hospital. Apparently, when you are suicide watch, they don’t trust you with sharp objects, even if they are wrapped in pink plastic.
“When can I shave my legs?”
“Why not? It’s been over 7 days. I am going even more insane.”
“Well, you must not have really wanted to die if you are so caught up in your personal appearance.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? Just because I want to be clean, I’m not suicidally depressed? Do you even have a degree? Um, not dead. So, therefore, would like to not be hairy. You at least owe me that. You really think I’m going to kill myself with a daisy razor? I’m not McGuyver. Hell, I can’t stand pain. I don’t even have scars from when I tried to slit my wrists. It hurt too much and I couldn’t cut deep enough. I am a wimp!”
“Well, you aren’t allowed to do anything unsupervised.”
“Fine, sit in the shower with me.”
“We can’t do that because it’s an invasion of your personal privacy.”
I’m the insane one? “Listen, I am by far the most cooperative and quiet patient you have in this lock-up. Wouldn’t it just be easier to let me shave and shut me up, rather than have me hound you incessantly until I’m released? Because seriously, I don’t have much else to do here.
10 minutes later, I am gloriously showering and shaving, occasionally sticking a limb outside of the curtain for inspection by the woman who was forced to sit outside the stall.
I may have been crazy, but I was silky smooth.