I hold the sharp metal blades under the shower head and cringe as the coarse dark hairs run down my hands.
The sensation of them on my skin makes me feel sick, but still I hack away at the most intimate part of me. When the hairs stop appearing on the plastic handle, I move onto my legs, slashing at the stubble that has been hidden under my pandemic uniform of leggings. The memory of finding a wiry strand one summer causes me to graze the blades over my toes, before loading up my underarms with conditioner for the grand finale.
With each cleared follicle I feel cleaner, but the shame doesn’t leave me until I have washed every piece of evidence from the shower tray with the rigour of a forensic crime-scene investigator. God forbid I leave a trace of my true self behind.
Like most of you, I have shaved my body hair since my early teens. Getting my first Venus razor was as much a milestone into womanhood as stealing a sanitary pad from my mum’s underwear drawer, or realising that batteries weren’t the only things that came in AA as I stood in the M&S changing room with an enthusiastic shop assistant. But it is only now, aged 34, that I am starting to question who I am shaving for, and
