What’s the deal with knee hair? Am I right, ladies (and male swimmers who can’t spare the weight of a follicle– or any other kind of man who shaves his legs. I’ll take all the support I can get on this little-discussed but extremely pertinent issue)?
It’s not like I skip over the knee when shaving, although it kind of appears that way. I don’t jump straight from shin to thigh. The knee hair is just a breed of bristle so evasive, I assume it twists out of the path of the razor Matrix-style, so that when I emerge from the shower, the region looks as if it has never met the edge of a blade.
It’s a real mystery because when I’m not running late and actually paying attention in the shower, I address the knee with extra care and committed villainy, “You will not beat me this time,” precision. Still, there they remain, mocking me with their virginal softness, having never once been sliced into stubble. Either the hair is indestructible, has ninja agility, or it grows back with Tim Allen as Santa Claus ferocity. I’m not sure which possibility scares me most.
Upon discovering these rogue hairs, I’m always tempted to climb back into the shower– or, on a more frustrating day (perhaps spent typing and deleting words at such a rate that, after two hours, the document is still blank) going at it with a pair of kitchen shears.
In the dim lighting of my bedroom, I assure myself that they are hardly noticeable. It is only when I arrive at work and swing my legs out of the car that the unforgiving sun spotlights my clumsy work and a certain professor who I may or may not be married to says with a smile, “Missed a spot?”
But I swear, I really didn’t. It’s just those damn industrial strength knee hairs with Olympic gold medalist dexterity.
What’s a girl to do when up against such a force? Wax? Ugh, let’s not even speak of it.