Since I made a section for family stories, I thought I’d fill it up – then years from now my descendents can find out about their ancestors…
The story today, my dear children, is about Aunt Julie’s hairy legs. She’s over on the other side of the ocean, so she can’t punch me – not that she ever did – she was the Good Child. The worst she ever did was to take all my sleeveless shirts and sew up the straps so she could wear them. Oh, and on my graduation day we drank a little more than we should have, but it wasn’t her fault we fell down the embankment – I pushed her.
If I were writing about your Uncle Peter, this post would be thirty pages long – so I’ll just have to think of the best stories for him. (And that will give him time to think of something to bribe me maybe, so I don’t tell about the time he skate-boarded down the hill and went under the tour bus, for example.)
Anyhow, we were talking about Aunt Julie’s hairy legs. She wanted to shave them, & our mother said “Not until you’re sixteen!” For some reason, 16 was the magic number in our house. At 16, we could wear makeup, shave our legs, and even get our ears pierced if we absolutely wanted to. (I did – desperately). We lived in the tropics, and wore shorts every day, so having nice shaved legs was important for a girl – especially when you had dark hair. So when she was 13, Julie started pestering Mom about shaving her legs. “Not until you’re 16!” she’d reiterate. It seemed hopeless. In 98° weather, Julie would wear long pants. She hated going to the beach. She begged and pleaded – but the answer was still the same. “When you’re 16!”
I turned 16 first, and lo and behold, I got a little pink lady’s razor (and proceeded to slice my shins to ribbons – the blood and gore didn’t deter Julie – she used to watch me shaving my legs and just drool…) I paraded around with shaved legs (and big band-aids), and poor Julie had to wait 2 more years. In the meantime, I got my earlobes pierced, they got infected, blew up to the size of golfballs, & turned red and blue. It turns out I was allergic to most metals, but I didn’t know it then. All I knew was I wanted pierced ears, and I suffered like a martyr to have them. Julie would have to wait till she was 16 to do that too – but seeing my ears, she wasn’t sure she wanted to…but every time I shaved my legs, she’d beg our mom to let her shave hers too.
Then one evening, my mother trimmed her lovely long, black hair in the sink. She cut about a foot off of it, and left it there while she went to fetch a garbage bag. Peter walked into the bathroom, saw the sink full of thick black hair – and the next thing we knew, he was running through the house screaming, “Mom! Julie shaved her legs!!”
Well, the next day, my mother bought Julie a lady’s safety razor and let her shave her legs.