Let’s talk about body hair. I am a fastidious leg waxer. This has often caused confusion for people around me, especially when I had dreadlocks. Weren’t dreads supposed to mean that I was politically opposed to the systematic oppression of women via leg hair?

Sadly, no. The dreads just meant that I wanted hair I could tie in knots and dangle things from. I don’t like the way leg hair feels. One winter, I let it grow out for three months. I got out of the shower one morning, walked across the room, and felt the wind whistling through the leg bristles. The madness had to stop.

I think the whole leg hair thing is also very confusing to those around me because, as much as I care about my legs, I simply don’t care about my armpits. I thought maybe moving to Los Angeles would change this — that maybe the scorn would be too much for me. I imagined this conversation taking place behind my back:

Queen1: Oh my god! Did you see her pits?
Queen2: [looks, gasps] Maybe she’s a sloppy trannie?
Queen1: Oh no, girl, if that was a trannie, you know she’d shave that shit.

Sadly, even this paranoia has not been able to incite enthusiasm for depilitating my under-arms. Let ‘em talk. At least I don’t have blooming pit rashes.