The steam hits my skin first, beginning its
purging. I step into the water and close the chamber's curtain, letting
the droplets permeate my pores. I begin the ritual of cleansing away
all the choices of the day before. The food I cooked, the tears I
dried, the faces I kissed, the sweat I poured, the spring pollen--though that
was an attack and hardly a choice. All the moments wash away as I
scrub with sweet scents, attempting to make fresh what was spoiled. I
breathe deeply as I rinse away both filth and fresh, leaving a new layer of
skin ready to take on what the world has to offer.
Then I begin the self-loathing ritual I cannot
seem to quit. No matter how I hate the process, no matter how
unnecessary I believe it to be, I still cannot manage to stand alone, to turn
around and stand against a sea of followers, all as miserable and trapped as I.
I pull the purple bottle from the shelf. It
contains the balm that is meant to protect me from the unnatural process set
before me. Its lavender and vanilla odors intended to distract my
mind and transport me to another time and place, both enchanted and perfect. It
cannot, however, withstand the sharp edges about to scrape it from my body. It
cannot protect me from the peeling away of something I was created to have, to
hold, to embrace as both warmth and shield. I enjoy the enchanted,
perfect place, if only briefly, imagining myself a powerful queen or a Supreme
Court Justice, ruling the land fairly, wisely, and benevolently.
Then comes the harsh pull back to reality and I
begin to slide the sharp edges along my limbs. I groan at the task
before me, a task surely not intended for woman but somehow greatly expected. I
seethe with anger, thinking of the time I spend doing what I hate and how, if
all the wretched minutes were to be tallied as a whole and returned to me, I
would receive days, nay, weeks of my life where I could have saved a squirrel
or fed a rhinoceros, or even, dare I dream, learned string theory.
I inevitably slide over a sensitive patch of
skin and draw blood, my very life force. A small piece of my soul
leaks from my veins, its red hue angry against the white surrounding me. Oh,
blood, thank you for the life. Thank you for your long journey through my
veins, bringing oxygen and vim and vigor to every corner of my being. To
end your journey so senselessly, so callously is wrong. In the name of
vanity, I lured you from your path and shed you like dog fur. The
inhumanity of it! For one moment you had purpose, and the next, you were
swirling down a drain, never to return, devoid of purpose, released from duty.
I slide the blades, again and again, hacking, stinging, destroying. I run my hands along my legs, looking for places that have escaped my murderous hands and remedy the stray patches by killing off the life growing from within my pores. I pull myself from the black reverie. I force myself to finish what I started quickly so that I can end, for now, the torture of both body and soul. For who am I to stand against the pressure? Who am I to stop the insanity? Who am I to give rise to a movement to allow myself and millions of others the right to feel both beautiful and natural? I am nothing other than a soggy, dripping mass of cells, hairless, defeated, and cold.
I am woman.
I am razor burned.
I. Hate. Shaving.
