If it was up to me hair would not grow at all in such places, yet seemingly we are bound by such necessity as to endlessly shave. An industry of removing little bits of ourselves and jamming up our plug holes.

My legs, what message do they send when shaven that is lost whilst hidden in forests of natural self? What purpose is served by our never ending quest to rid ourselves of folicle abundance?

This expression of feminism taken in secret acquisition of the very embodiment of male capitalism - a purchase of the best a man can get, for what purpose do I subject myself to grazing and cuts and an exponential bill of replacement blades?

When you look at me do you see? Do you notice that under my clothes hidden away is a legion of folicles ending neatly as they break the surface of my skin?

Do you see? The pains I have gone to to smooth out the contours of my aged knee caps. The enduring effort of a relentless pursuit of scraping areas of my body that lay hidden from sight.

Just for your imagination, jut so that you can look at me and know, just so that when you see me, you see a woman. Are you really so insecure of my gender that I must paddy to your imagination?

Perhaps when you look at me next you might pause to wonder: Did I really shave my legs? Or have I just let you think that.