It’s November now, which means itchy kisses abound.
Since 2004, the Movember initiative, a mass movement aimed at raising awareness for prostate cancer, has become increasingly popular. What started as a small crusade in Australia—where, given the Cro Magnon-esque natures of Aussie men I’ve met, it’s surprising anyone learned to shave in the first place—has now extended its reach to countries around the world, Canada included.
This month, men across our great nation have one thing on the brain. Okay, two, but the new one is: facial hair. They’ll brag, compare, and relentlessly track their progress via Instagram. And good for them! As a woman, I can’t imagine how difficult it must be to walk around with tiny little hairs sprouting from my face, unsightly little things that darken the complexion and mask an otherwise beautiful mug. I just simply cannot imagine.
Oh, wait. Yes I can. And, I don’t believe I’m alone, either.
Now, I’m all for awareness-raising, cancer-preventing, and stupid word-inventing, but guys? I’m jealous of Movember.
For 12 months of the year, women play slave to razors, grim-faced salon waxers, and depilatory creams that smell like Sodom and Gomorrah. We forcibly make smooth the legs, the arms, and although many of us would rather die a terrible death than admit it to others, often the face as well.
I’ll never forget the first time my mother forced me to get my eyebrow waxed. (I say ‘eyebrow’ because, if I pluralized the word, I would be lying.) I was 12 years old, it was summer, and my family was flying to Israel for my Bat Mitzvah. My mom told me that if I didn’t want to look like Eugene Levy on my big day, I’d sit down, quit whining, and let the large Slavic lady “do her damn job.”
Once the giant slayed the ferret-like creature growing above my eye sockets, she asked if I’d like my upper lip done as well. Not knowing any better, and a little afraid of what she’d do if I said no, I reluctantly agreed.
And that was the moment my life changed forever.
It’s said that Harper’s Bazaar is to blame. In 1915, the magazine published one of the very first photos of a model flaunting bare arms and shoulders, and not just bare of clothes, but completely hairless. The sign was clear: body hair was officially unfashionable. And, to drive the point home, medical professionals, egged on by mainstream media, blasted that it was also extremely unhygienic.
In fairness, it was around this same time—the onset of WWI—that it became increasingly uncommon for men to sport beards. For one, it was believed to be a health hazard for serving soldiers, with the lice and all. For another, it was said to look sloppy and unprofessional, i.e. everything the North American man was not. Allegedly.
Fast-forward 96 years, and my boyfriend, a completely respectable Bay Street type, is a dead ringer for Teen Wolf all year round. Travel west of Bathurst, and you will find a million dudes who “raise awareness” every day. (Although I’m not, er, in a position to say whether the manscaping matches the drapes.) Women, on the other hand, are still bound by convention to look baby-smooth. Even if we’re feminists, we’re more lipstick about it than ever, and tell ourselves that we don’t want to look like Chia Pets any more than men want us to—and I’m not discounting that. But just for one month, if we’re to believe that all dudes looking like Zach Galifianakis on Rogaine is an appropriate example of disease advocacy, then why can’t we play too? At the very least, it’s more fun than wearing pink.
I first learned about HairyAwarey—a campaign encouraging women to “grow it and show it” for the months of June and July—through an article in The Guardian. British feminist Jessica Burton started the campaign a year ago, and twelve-or-so months later, it’s found fans around the world. Even in Brazil. And we all know what they’re famous for.
Essentially, Burton’s mission statement suggests that it’s okay to go a little ‘Frida Khalo’ in the summertime (being careful not to cross into Salvador Dali territory, I’m sure) and still feel confident and beautiful. It has nothing to do with cancer, and surely participants don’t upload snapshots of their flocculent underarms to Facebook, but it certainly stands for something. The connection is clearer here.
Facial hair, like leg or underarm hair, is completely natural—and not unattractive, depending on the beholder. Despite her noticeable facial growth, Ximena Navarrete was crowned Miss Universe in 2010, making her something of an unlikely feminist hero. Even Beyonce, once described by Jon Caramanica as making “a career out of impeccability,” appeared on a 2009 red carpet with fuzzy pits. An unshaved underarm on Beyonce is like, what, a Fu Manchu on the rest of us? And I, for one, would happily trade a little vanity for a break from Helga and her sticky canvas strips.
So this Movember, let’s stand in solidarity with the boys and toss the epilator out with their straight blades. Or just stop giving a pluck.
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Carli Stephens Rothman has a doggy style blog and last wrote for the Toronto Standard about bizarre perfumes.
