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A video of a chocolate chip cookie covered with a clump of hair appears on my TikTok feed. “Would you eat this cookie?” asks a woman dressed in a black salon uniform. “No,” she says. “Neither would your man. Book yourself in for a laser consultation today.” While the ad – for a laser hair removal service – is clearly trying to be funny and a little tongue-in-cheek, I can’t help but roll my eyes into my skull. Let’s capitalise and make fun of women’s bodies again shall we? How original.
Women’s body hair has always been a hot topic. We’re told to keep it, remove it, wax it, shave it – depending on the era, the trend or who’s watching. It’s chic, it’s dirty, it’s smelly, it’s empowering. But it’s never really been about choice. Every year brings a new solution packaged neatly into a fresh product: a bamboo razor, a scented cream, a hot wax trend and now, the holy grail of smoothness, laser. And I, and many others, are guilty of buying into it.
Last year, I was going travelling for six months around South East Asia and couldn’t be bothered with the general “upkeep” of my armpits and bikini area (it’s a full-time job). So I tried laser hair removal. I’ve never been a particularly hairy person – something my friends remind me to be grateful for. Grateful that I don’t have to spend time shaving. Grateful that my skin feels smooth and not prickly. Grateful that I can spontaneously wear a skirt in the summer without worrying about visible stubble. They love to bang on about how much easier it’s made their lives.
But as I first lay face down on the treatment bed, seconds from being zapped with tiny lasers, I couldn’t help but wonder: if body hair wasn’t stigmatised in the first place, would we need to make our lives easier by removing it? I told myself:“It’s so worth it, Esme, you’ll always be prepared!” But prepared for what? A surprise bikini line inspection?
In a study by Stylist Magazine, 98 per cent of women said they have removed their body hair at some point. Sixty-six per cent removed underarm hair “to feel more hygienic”, while 74 per cent removed their leg hair and 73 per cent their pubic hair, to feel “more groomed and put together”.
When I was younger, I’d feel dirty for having hair down there. I’d shave before a date – or any situation in which I was going to take my clothes off – just to make sure everything was “tidy.” I’m not alone in feeling this way. My friend Georgia associates removing hair with being single: “when I’m in a relationship I don’t care as much, but when I’m single and dating, I shave just in case”.
Ama, a 27-year-old living in London, agrees: “I do think now if I had a full bush and I was getting with a guy, I probably would say, ‘let’s not sleep together tonight.’” She recalls a time at university when a photo was posted on Facebook revealing her stomach hair, and how she hoped no one would notice. She’s been undergoing laser hair removal since 2019, racking up a £5,000 bill – part of which her mum helped her cover, knowing how unhappy she was with her body hair. She says that hair makes her feel “really unfeminine”
Riya, a 26-year-old secondary school teacher from Essex, has been removing her body hair since the age of 11. From secretly using her dads razor as a child to waxing at 16, Riya has been converted to laser hair removal for four years, and says removing her hair has always been normal to her. “Growing up in Essex, the main thing is definitely pubic hair,” she tells me. “Like, nobody has it. Everyone is smooth as f*** everywhere. Social media is dangerous, but I’ve always been made to feel that hair is unclean and unattractive.” Fully aware of the beauty standards but also wanting to avoid judgment, she admits, “if I saw another Indian girl crying about having hair, I’d tell her to just remove it”. She tells me about the time she was bullied in primary school for her sideburns and leg hair.
The same goes for 24-year-old Natalia, who would rather feel confident by getting rid of the hair altogether. With summer on the horizon, she’s frantically researching the best hair removal practices to be “ready” and “comfortable” for the warm weather.
From these conversations, it’s obvious: we all know the male gaze is alive and kicking and we’re well aware of what a beauty standard is. But awareness doesn’t mean freedom. We’re still flying the flag for hairlessness like it’s second nature, just with more self-awareness and more efficient removal techniques. “I always thought that it was my decision. But maybe it does come down to how attractive or not I’m perceived by society,” Ama admits.
We tell ourselves it’s about confidence, and that removing our hair is a choice we’ve made for ourselves. But that confidence is shaped by how we’ve been taught to see ourselves. We’ve been scammed into thinking it’s our choice, that our bodies are beautiful while being surrounded by countless ads and images of hairless women labelled as “gorgeous” and “confident.”
“I think it all just feeds into a larger issue of big cosmetic businesses monetising on women’s insecurities,” says Georgia. “My overall view is that we can’t win”.
She’s right. We know it’s a con. We know hair isn’t actually dirty, it grows there for a reason. It’s not unfeminine and it definitely shouldn’t be compared to a contaminated cookie. But still, you wouldn’t catch me dead with hairy armpits. After speaking to these women and my friends, I’ve found we’re all just trying to get on with it. We’re not agonising in the shower over every hair, but we’re also not ecstatic over our weekly shave. It’s about convenience and eliminating the thing that gets commented on: our hair.
I couldn’t care less what anyone else does. But I do care that we’ve been taught to care this much.
English (US) ·