JC (2016), Superia 800 film

The day my mother taught me to shave my legs, she handed me a disposable Bic razor, my father's shaving cream, and a warning that I would cut myself a lot until I mastered the art, especially around the knees. I didn't take that seriously. How could this piece of cheap plastic possibly harm me? I have cut myself every time I have shaved my legs since that day. 

My smooth skin does not define my femininity, but it does remind me that I have choices women only one generation older than me didn't have. 

I consider myself closer to androgynous on the gender spectrum. I shaved my head, wear my husband's clothing, only wear makeup as part of my onstage persona, and bras are my ultimate nemesis; freedoms I do not take for granted. But, for reasons that are beyond logic, I still shave. And every time I do, I cut myself. Sometimes you hit just the right spot and it's a total blood bath. It can be a bit traumatizing. In those moments, these rapid fire thoughts pass through my mind - "Ow!, Shit! Why am I even doing this? Fuck the Patriarchy!" Oh, it's so soft." And so, I continue to live in the ambiguous duality that, while I live in a day and age when I have choices to reject the symbolic oppression of the Patriarchy that wants me to be a hairless sex slave, I choose to face the threat of death by disposable razor in order to luxuriate in my own lustrous perfection. These silky smooth legs are my treat to myself, and that's my middle finger to the Patriarchy.