Fatgirl Femme

Hairy-Legged Feminism
I started shaving my legs and armpits when I was 13. By the time I was 15, I was becoming a bit of an anti-establishment, in-your-face brat, and I was in a phase of rejecting and questioning everything associated with the status-quo as a part of coming into my feminism. My mother had stopped shaving her legs, and the hair seemed to pretty much be rubbing off her body over time. I theorized that if I started now (at 15), all my leg hair would have worn off by the time I was 20, and I wouldn’t have to deal with the issue at all anymore! That’s not really how it worked out, but the hair on my legs still grew back soft, strawberry-blond, sparse, and pretty much invisible, so shaving seemed kind of pointless anyway.

It was 13 years before I started shaving my legs again. I could go back and check my chat logs and find I came to Sinclair with my feminist hair crisis. I was suddenly feeling like I wanted to shave again, but was all freaked out about “omg, what does this mean?!” Sin’s attitude was pretty much, “Dude, if you want to shave your legs, go shave your legs. Empower thyself in whatever way you see fit.” Now, I love having shaved legs. I like how it feels when I slide between the sheets at night, and that’s enough of a reason for me.

Armpits
When I was 18, I stopped shaving my armpits, but I started shaving there again a few years ago. It was summer, and hot, and I just was kind of annoyed by the way the hair got in the way. I felt hot and sweaty and very hippie-ish, and that was just a phase I was growing out of at the time. I’d also gone to the 2005 Queering Femininity conference, which helped me embrace my queer femme self, and I felt like it sort of gave me permission to do what I wanted with my body. So I wanted to see what shaving under my arms would be like, and I did. And it turns out, I like it.

Firecrotch
I make choices about my body hair based on what I like. I WILL NOT shave, or even trim, my pubes for anyone else, ever. It itches like a motherfucker, even trimming, so I won’t do it. Plus, as a redhead, I like that I’m a firecrotch. However, my trichotillomania causes me to pull my pubic hair out on a fairly regular basis, so maybe that counts as trimming.

Long, Red, Curly
I wear my long, red, and curly hair down daily. I rarely cut it (maybe once a year I’ll have it trimmed), and prefer to let it grow long and wild. The longer my hair gets, the curlier it gets, and I LOVE seeing it cascade in spirals down my back. Right now it’s at probably the longest point ever, hitting just above the small of my back at the longest point, when dry. If I pull on that longest piece to uncurl it, it reaches the top of my panties in the back. My hair is absolutely the root of my sexuality, and probably also my personality. I do wear it up sometimes in the summer, but not for a partner. There’s just too much hair to wear it down when it’s hot outside!

Redheads: Community Property?
One of Sin’s commenters noted feeling that her long, curly red hair is community property, and that’s a sentiment I definitely relate to. I remember relating to the character of Caddie Woodlawn when I was in grade school, because she characters in the book were always reaching out to touch and comment on her red hair. People say to me, “Wow, I wish I had your hair,” but the thing is…if they really knew what it’s like to walk through the world each day with this hair, I don’t think they’d say that at all. As a femme-presenting woman, I feel acutely that my body and presence are assumed to be the communal property of any man who is intrigued by it, either for attraction, or—because I’m fat—ridicule.

I have worked in downtown Seattle for many years now, and it got really old really fast to get catcalls and comments from men when I walk into work in the mornings. It makes me feel vulnerable, exposed, unsafe. At the same time, I feel guilty: like maybe I bring it on myself because I choose to present as overtly pretty and feminine and sexy, even though I do it because it feels like a radical political act for a fat girl to intentionally present herself in those ways. I feel embarrassed, too, like I must be performing “femme” wrong if these stupid men can’t tell that it’s not for them.

These encounters have always happened to me, ever since I was a little girl, and one of the unfortunate side effects of this is that I do not enjoy having anyone touch my hair, even a trusted lover. Aside from having my hair pulled in a scene (which is hot), I dislike having my hair touched by almost anyone. I can tolerate it if it’s right before bed, or immediately after waking up, but otherwise it is a surefire way to get me to get up and leave the room with the excuse of refilling my water bottle, and come back to sit on the other side of the sofa. Having my hair touched is not an enjoyable experience for me, because it’s an activity that has always been associated in my experience with being objectified in an unpleasant and non-consensual way. When a lover touches my hair out of awe or admiration or respect, all I feel is a mixture of guilt and sadness. I feel sad that I can’t enjoy it, and (once they realize that I’m not enjoying it) I feel guilty because I know they’re not intending to make me uncomfortable. The one exception to this is in the shower: I adore having my hair washed by a lover, and for some reason that is a context in which having my hair touched doesn’t bother me, and instead leaves me feeling cared for and valued and pampered.

At one point, I would have had to answer to my friends if I cut or dyed my hair, but these days I think I have a friend group that is pretty respectful of people’s right to do what they wish with their bodies and presentation. There have been many times (usually after a particularly aggressive encounter on my way into work) where I’ve just wanted to go home and dye my hair brown. I do sometimes long to know what it would be like to not have all this sensual, beautiful hair, or for it to at least not feel like something everyone (but me) owns.