My sister once told me if she could choose any time and place to visit, it would be my Grandma Mary’s farm growing up. She had some great stories. Like when she rode home with her older sister, Glenna, after play practice and Glenna was “sweet on” the boy driving (note: I believe they were in a horse and buggy) and that boy put his arm around Glenna. Incredulous, as soon as they got home, Grandma Mary told her dad. When she went upstairs to dress for bed, Glenna came in her room to tell her, “don’t you dare tell dad that boy put his arm around me!” And apparently Grandma Mary just nodded and ducked under the covers.
Who wouldn’t want to see that play out? Or at least ride in a horse and buggy and watch the play. Or see Glenna’s face when the boy made his move.
Sports fans probably choose to experience events like watching Jackie Robinson get his first hit in the MLB. History buffs might return to some defining moment of a great war. (I’d love to hear in the comments what moment you would choose).
I would go back to the very first person who decided to take a razor to her legs. I would bust into her bathroom before that Schick got too close and beg for a second thought. This decision has the power to change the image of beauty and it will require a lot of time spent in the shower, I would say.
At some point in our collective history women had hair on their legs. They accepted it as part of the curse and blessing of being a homo sapiens, along with walking upright and opposable thumbs. And then some woman, probably not in her most glorious of moments, thought, “if we take the hair off these legs, they’ll be smooth.” Why did she consider this as an option? What led her to this silky smooth discovery? What, exactly, was the problem hairiness, like all the other mammals?
Little did she know what would happen just two days (or, as is the case for some of us, 2 hours) later. STUBBLE. Oh, you can always let it grow back. <- LIE. The itching. She didn’t account for the itching.
Not to mention the nicks and cuts involved. I remember the day of my junior prom laying on the floor with my foot elevated on the couch because I had gashed my ankle to the point of gushing. I have yet to shave around the area where the foot bone connects to the shin bone without drawing blood. One would think that after 15 years of practice that I would improve my technique.
It gets worse. Years later, this misdemeanor evolves into “the brazilian.”. (WHAT THE?! Seriously people, what kind of person under the guise of genius inflicts such pain on other people? I’ve not undergone such a procedure but I can’t even write about the idea without wincing).
A quick googling will give you all kinds of interesting reading on the great shave, but does not provide me a date and place to stop this atrocity when a time-traveling Delorian arrives at my door. Until the interwebs produce more accurate research, I will stand with this gal in blaming the fashion industry. First, they sell us new and more revealing dresses, then they sell us a pink razor to make the look more appealing.
While we’re on the topic, then, I would like to call on the carpet the pointless act of making ourselves more tan and painting the nails of our extremities. Now a few niche markets make bazillions by inducing upon me time-sucking and sometimes painful tasks.
Sometimes, it really is a lot of work to be so beautiful, isn’t it?