Here's the gratuitous photo:
Kidding. Those are Jason's legs. But it's an accurate representation, other than his enviable quadriceps. Okay, if you MUST-- here's mine. Yeaaaah-heah-heah-heahhhh BABY. Pretty sure mine are even hairier than the mister's.
Oh, my little strings of keratin. You've been through a gamut of adventures since August:
You began your journey of growth whilst frolicking about Disneyworld.
You kept me as warm as a wooly mammoth in Sveeden.
You've been to recent physical therapy appointments where--SURPRISE!!-- the doctor asked me to change into shorts. Awkward.
Then you accompanied me to another appointment where the doctor put that weird therapy tape on my knee:
|except way hairier|
...and then you went to another doctor appointment a week later where I had to rip off the $&^% TAPE and HOLY FLAMING HELLFIRE I SWEAR I WILL NEVER TRY WAXING IN MY LIFE. I made my poor (male) doctor do it because I literally could not will myself to pull on the tape. (So for that, and just for being awesome, I'll give him a little plug here: Dr. Gervais will fix your injuries AND rip off your leg hair for you-- without even cringing at all the hair stuck to the tape.)
But this week... alas. The weather got hot and I had to run a timed 6K (3.7 miles) at my gym. Not something I wanted to do in sweatpants.
THE TIME WAS NIGH TO HARVEST ZEE CROPS.
The idea of it tortured me. My leg hair had grown on me, and I was rather attached to it (I'm SORRY, I'm SORRY, it's not even funny, but was two puns in one sentence and I just couldn't let the opportunity pass me by).
...that is, until I actually have to wear shorts in public. Way to walk the walk, April.
I thought of all that work those little follicles had accomplished; I'll bet they were so proud. I thought of all that protein that my bloodstream had lovingly set aside for a little decorative somethin'-somethin' for my legs. Nine looong months of tedious hair-building, gone with the effortless swipe of a razor.
* * *Forty minutes and three decimated razors later, my fall foliage was clogging the drain and I was rushing into the gym five minutes late.
We stepped outdoors to begin the run, and I felt a strange sensation on my left thigh. A... rustling, if you will. I looked down.
I had missed a chunk. A little oasis of lingering wildlife amidst a clear-cutted massacre zone. And the rustling sensation was it gleefully blowing in the breeze.
It enjoyed the 6K run like a dog with its head out a car window (believe me, I speak fluent folliclean).
And now it's three days later... and I still haven't shaved it.
I love stories with happy endings.