"How old were you when you started shaving your legs?"
I pretended to think long and hard as if I couldn't remember the first time I attacked my adolescent livelihood with a 3 tier razor.
"Um, I think 13 or 14... maybe."
My little sister stared at me as if I was crazy for waiting so long.
She turns 12 on Saturday, and "everyone in her class" is already shaving their little legs.
And the truth of the matter is, when I was 11, I starting shaving mine too.
Not because the delicate, blond hairs were "gross" or because I thought I "needed" to.
I did it, because all the other girls were doing it.
I remember the first time I felt my own, freshly shaved legs. While they were smoother than they'd ever been... they looked even more pale and pasty than before I'd done it. The pre-teen chub was more alarming than before, and I wore pants on the hottest days so no one would see what I'd done to myself.
Not to mention, it was only a matter of hours before they were itchier and stubblier than they'd ever been before shaving them in the first place.
"Why do you want to shave them anyway?" I asked mini-me.
"Because they're gross! Look at them!" she exclaimed while brushing the perfectly acceptable blond hairs with her childlike fingers, nails unpainted and un-groomed.
"You think THAT'S gross!? I asked while grabbing her hand and making her feel my calf after two days sans razor.
"Ew!" She screamed, "That's awful!"
"Yes," I said. "It is."