The Passing of the Razor

My sister and I were not allowed to shave our legs until we were 12 years old. Period. It didn't matter how hairy we were, twelve was the magic age. I don't know why that particular number was picked but it was a huge deal in my house. I still have a picture of my sister jumping up and down with joy, holding the Ficker Razor she had just unwrapped at her twelfth birthday party.

A few days ago, I was looking at my darling daughter and noticed how hairy her legs are. She has brown hair, and it was really standing out against her skin. That whole puberty thing has really kicked her hair production into overdrive.

But........she's only eleven. The magic age is twelve.

Oh well.

The magic age will have to change or my daughter will be tasered and tagged as the next Sasquatch.

So we had a little mother daughter bonding moment sitting on the side of the tub with me teaching her how to shave. I was nervous that she was going to cut herself. Puberty has made even small issues become worthy of tears and declarations of never doing something again in her whole life (slamming door sound here). A little nick in her leg might have wound up with all of us in therapy.

Fortunately, it went well. She's very tickled to have smooth legs now. Only one minor scrape was incurred, and luckily it didn't cause a melt down.

Phew! I have passed the razor on to my child; the world is now hers.

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