I still don't shave. Much. Don't need to, don't want to,no time, no money, hell, its all the same to me. Another excuse to avoid the impenetrable truth that is "I don't give a damn, and I never will again." That rite of passage taught me enough. Not too long ago the pretty little plastic-handed blades were used for other purposes.I have fading slashes up and down my arms and legs from back then, shadows under my eyes from now, and you STILL want to fuck me.
Those rough adolescent survival skills never left me you know. I could plant a 4-inch stiletto in your panting greedy mouth if you gave me a good reason. My stylish rings with the shiny dangerous jewels leave marks on skin. I am not afraid to fight in a skirt. I don't mind if my hair is mussed in the battle for my rights. I love this body. And if you treat it wrong, prepare for your face to make friends with a brick wall in Hell's Kitchen and let me walk away without a scratch.
I was there in the 80's when they tried to tell me I couldn't make my own choices. I stood next to the coat-hanger-treated prostitutes and the gleaming college students with untainted wombs. I have fought and won battles that even the President couldn't handle. I yelled at the pigs that beat me down."I am a WOMAN, god damn it. Hear me roar forevermore!"
After all these years, a razor doesn't seem like much of anything anymore.