I know I'm probably an unrealistic parent when it came to the appropriate timing for teaching my pre-teen daughter how to shave but my theory was always that when it was necessary, I'd know. Maybe there's an age limit that I didn't know about. Maybe I should have done it sooner, who knows? All I knew was that I didn't want her to have to deal with the stigma of going into junior high with hairy legs when she loves to wear skirts and dresses.
I splurged and bought the aloe-lined fancy razor that helps prevents nicking your legs. I splurged and bought the fancy shaving gel that is extra moisturizing and smells pretty. I prepped her on how to actually complete the process and anxiously waited outside the bathroom for her to begin the task. I kept peeking my head into the steamy bathroom, asking through the shower curtain, "Is everything okay?" She kept assuring me that she was getting ready to start and then it happened....
The scream she let out sounded like Janet Leigh in "Psycho". Having been lingering around the door in case there was a question, I rushed my post-surgical body into the bathroom as quickly as I could and heard the sniffling, bawling mess that had replaced my daughter. A million thoughts went through my mind at once: Did I start this too soon? Should I have done this when she wasn't in the shower so I can help her more? Did she slice an artery? I shouted through the curtain to her asking her what had happened and she peered out, bawling and afraid.
"Mom, I cut myself...." Fully preparing myself for a gash the size of a C-section scar, I braced myself for impact as she slid her leg out and showed me the teeny, tiny nick in the back of her ankle. Relief......thank goodness. It's just a nick.....but it wasn't just a nick to her. This was a dramatic situation, one that called for immediate medical intervention to the nth degree. I had to coax her to get her to finish shaving her legs before we dealt with the tiny nick, which was already beginning to clot on its own. With incredibly dramatic flourish, she hurried through the shaving process, avoiding further trauma but leaving most of the leg hair untouched.
She got out of the shower, got her pajamas on in privacy and, pitifully, opened the bathroom door, still wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. She solemnly informed me that her injury had required only two bandaids and some medical tape to repair it. She also informed me that she might need to ice it because it was "really painful." She cradled that ankle and limped for the remainder of the night as though she'd experienced a skiing accident that had severed a tendon but quickly forgot about it by the next day when the sprinkler came out. So with tiny streaks of bare skin between the stripes of leg hair left by the traumatic rush of injury, she donned her bathing suit and ran like the wind through the sprinkler all afternoon.
We're still working on the concept of shaving her legs again. She's somewhat understandably stricken by the desire to avoid the tiny bee-sting pain of a nick again. She's definitely understanding that unless she is bleeding or on fire, screaming like she's being murdered is not an option at any point in time. I've had to write off leg-shaving like I wrote off her younger sister's blankie addiction; when it's time for her to do it (or in Syd's case, to let it go), she'll do it. If she chooses to brave the Gillette world again in the near future, fantastic! If she chooses to brave the world of middle school with legs that look like the body wax scene from "The 40 Year Old Virgin", so be it. It's entirely possible that there will be a dramatic experience that comes with every shaving experience for the next six months along with a war tale that will told for weeks at a time. With that being said, I had to write this off to teenage drama and move on with my day, choosing to keep my sanity over concern about body hair and bandaids.
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