TWSS’ Yazmin Sadik discusses the normalisation of body hair on all bodies, exploring how we can begin to reclaim our bodies, and their hair, as natural and beautiful.

Armpits and legs are fairly exposed spaces on the body, and on a body that isn’t a man’s, a space for conflict. The first time my mum had ever expressed disgust over mine had violently burst the bubble of acceptance I had comfortably been living in. In some ways I thank her; her shock had hurt me the most and ‘it wasn’t even with real revulsion’ she explained, profusely apologising and repeating ‘it was an involuntary reaction’. But in many ways, this reaction is much worse than one born from a well-informed and impassioned opinion.

As I began writing this article, I thought back to my initial decision to stop shaving nearly three years ago and remembered the very limited, but very powerful representation I was exposed to of non-male bodies confidently living with body hair. The photographer Blue (Kizozo) was one of them, and I reached out to them on Instagram @confusedcu1ture. I was struck when Blue explained that ‘one thing my mum would say about me being hairy was that it means health and I’ve definitely lived by that. Hair is health.’ The excision of body hair is deeply knotted in our society’s standards of female beauty and, equally inaccurately, hygiene (but of course specifically for women). I didn’t think I had to remind anyone that hair is there to protect our skin from germs, absorb sweat, and regulate body temperature, but when people tell me that they ‘personally feel more hygienic shaved’, I want to ask them when exactly I said I’d be avoiding showers and deodorant as well as razors.

As a Turkish Cypriot my hair is naturally dark and unruly. To be given the same expectations of beauty as a fair, thinly-haired girl during puberty, when neither of you are even acutely aware of your own bodies, is a crushing realisation that is imminent for any darker girl. This moment came after I had convinced my mum to put me in gymnastics classes, crying about having to jealously watch the cartwheeling girls during PE. During one class, I was on the bars doing pull-ups when a pair of girls walked past me and pointed at my armpits in complete horror, pulling faces before running away whispering. Again, I found myself crying and begging my mum, but this time it wasn’t for gymnastics classes but for a razor. I was hairy and had only just realised. Had it all sprouted in one mass overnight? Why didn’t the rest of the girls have any hair? And why, why was mine so dark? At this point I didn’t realise leg hair and the shadow of a monobrow were yet to come, or at least in my crazed state I hadn’t yet looked anywhere but my armpits in the mirror.

Years later, after I decided to grow my body hair, I found it funny remembering how in the next few gymnastics classes I pretended I was in a strop, attempting everything from cartwheels to pull ups with permanently shrugged shoulders and bent arms. But as that first dreaded summer stretched before me with its promise of sandy swims, I suddenly found myself drowning in the sea as I again tried to eradicate the use of my upper arms and keep my legs deep, deep in the water. I never did shave my body hair that holiday and nearly three years later I still don’t ever plan on it. I am no longer pre-pubescent, and I want my body to indicate that. 

On men, hair is a symbol of sexual maturity and masculinity. It’s, therefore, not a secret that smooth, hairless women are perceived as younger, unwittingly feeding into the sexualisation of young girls. This expectation to look sexually ignorant stems from the patriarchal imperative for women to be submissive and chaste. When I asked Blue if there were times they felt inclined to shave, they replied ‘I shave my body hair when I’ve gone through something traumatic. It feels like I’m restarting and getting rid of energy. I also feel like I have to shave when I’m with a guy who’s not as open, but it makes me realise that they’re not for me if they cry over body hair.’ This pressure is also perpetuated by girl-talk because of the beauty standards instilled into us at such a young age: ‘My boyfriend’s coming over tonight, I need to remember to shave’, or ‘please don’t look at my legs, they’re so hairy right now!’ It took me a while before I stopped tightening my arms to my chest and pulling at my skirt when I heard this incessant but innocently intentioned talk from my friends. For me, natural body hair exudes a confidence and understanding of one’s own body that’s unquestionably attractive outside of any gender.

Interestingly, the original reason I stopped shaving had more to do with gender than anything else. In 2021, I both decided to drastically cut the hair on my head short at the same time I decided to stop shaving the rest of my body (to what would have been the complete horror of younger me on both accounts). I was learning that I felt more comfortable on the edge of the presupposed “boundaries” of gender; ironically, I would later feel more in touch with the femininity I was originally avoiding through this choice as I began to break down my associations of body hair with masculinity. After telling Blue that gender identity played a large part in my decision to stop shaving, they reminded me that ‘body hair is human regardless of how you define your identity. Body hairs are details to your humanity, expression and the warmth of your body. And when we use things as a tool to make us feel a certain way, we detach from it being something natural. That’s not our fault of course, but everyday remind yourself you are human above all.’