Dear Razor

You sit in my bathroom, blue and soft and sleek and curvaceous. Urging, almost begging me to use you. You were created well – so well. I was tricked into buying you. I was 13 years old when I shaved my legs for the first time. I was at my best girlfriend’s house. I remember the event like one remembers a car crash. I remember the cheap razor, angry and offensive in my little  brown hand. My mother was horrified.

The deed was done. At first it was fun. All these new things were flying into my pubescent world. First kisses, first pink drinks, first push-up bra, first g-string. All of these new things. They all needed each other and I needed them. No one understood how much I needed them. “God, Mom, you don’t understand. You’re too old!” (13 year old Thola then storms out of the kitchen with her new itchy legs).

I remember those years where everything made perfect sense. Yes, I’ll cut this old pillowcase  into a dress and wear it with my dad’s army belt. It all made sense. I needed to have this particular deodorant and that particular soap and this exact colour of socks and not  that school diary because it didn’t have pictures in. “OMG Dad!”

My one armpit hair was shaved and sprayed and watched with hawk-like eyes. My non-existent spots were washed with stolen facewash because my parents, rightfully, refused to ruin my skin. Cheap razor after cheap razor was bought with my R20 pocket money. I saved up for mousse and creams and whatever other absolutely NECESSARY things I might have needed as I turned into the perfect 16 year old horror of a drama queen.

16 came and went. 18 happened, then 20 was upon me. I bought you then, dear Razor. I chose you after having tried waxing and plucking, threading and hair removal creams. After all of that pain and endless suffering I chose you. I knew that you were the one that I would keep for the rest of my life. You have been everywhere with me. You have lived on many different walls, maybe even met some balls, foreign  pits, bumped into different coloured clits. I can’t be sure. But now I have words to say to you.

I can not remember the last time that I used you. I can not remember why I thought that I needed you. I can not for the life of me understand why I spent so much time and money shaving, plucking, waxing, removing and agonising over something so unnecessary. Hair.

Damn you Razor with your pretty shapes and easy lines, with your smooth aloe creams and replaceable head. I hate how much you managed to make me love you. #RazorMustFall. Get down off my wall. I have had enough of being sold things that I think I need.

Dearest Razor, please understand. It’s not you, it’s me – but really though. I should never have bought you. I should never have shaved my legs. I love my hair. I am super proud of it all. Everywhere.


3 thoughts on “Dear Razor

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