I'd burn Ms. Magazine before I sport the stubble.
Call me a traitor, but if that's what it takes to be a role model to future generations, roll me in the darkest corner and hang a scarlet letter 'round my neck.
I love the shaved life.
I don't do it for my husband or the paparazzi (although I bring my A game in that mirror Academy speech) -- my razor and I are in an exclusive relationship that's doctor prescribed.
Let me break it down for you:
- Long hairs sticking through knitted socks are a hazard waiting to happen when you need to pull those babies off for a quickie (unless you keep your socks on?).
- Nothing feels better after you've spent five days on the couch watching reruns of the Tanner family because you're too nauseous to reach for the remote than to jump in the shower and rid your body of Roseanne overload. The hair gets in the way of a good scrubdown.
- Toe hair plus nail polish = ruined pedicure. And a good pedicure = pure bliss.
- I hate lotioning my legs -- but using cheap conditioner to shave saves me the inordinate pain in the ass.
Are you a feminist who loves to shave?