February 14, 2011 by David Gillaspie
To Shave Or Not To Shave
Two long, shapely, well-turned legs are a standard fixture on all fashion runways.
Their smooth look means one thing, a terrific shaver.
No nicks or cuts in high fashion.
These women walk a different walk. Maybe it’s the shoes?
Maybe it’s an anatomical anomaly?
They walk a line like a Flying Wallenda working the family tightrope.
Fashion photographers take shots with a flash in a dark room, but legs like these have their own flash of static electricity. They send jolts of current into everyone in the room.
Hair standing on end is normal.
But what about the leg shaving guy in the sauna? A statement of weirdness, or something else?
A sauna works two things better than any room. It cleanses the body and soul through extreme heat, and it gives others a chance to talk about the spirit cleaner once they leave.
If you talk to someone in the middle of their spirit cleaning routine, you upset their balance, so it’s best to talk behind their back.
One man came in and started hitting yoga poses, a sure sign of spirit enhancement. If you doubt it, tie yourself in a knot and try to get loose without a prayer.
This man moved from yoga to what seems like a series of voluntary convulsions. He also looks like he suffers from alopecia, a disease that leaves people as hairless as a balloon, or a fashion model’s leg.
After he shook out his last demon, he left. Wonderment circled the sauna.
“What the hell was that?”
“Never seen anything like it.”
“I couldn’t do those moves if I was triple jointed.”
One sauna woman took a different tack. “A shaver. A guy who shaves his body isn’t someone you’ll ever figure out.”
“How do know he shaves? Maybe he’s got that hairless disease, aloe vera.”
“I checked. He had hairy knuckles.”
“So he’s a shaver, but not a knuckle shaver?”
“Everyone draws the line somewhere.”
“I don’t want to know.”
A hairy legged guy on the top bench listens in, then opens up.
“I start shaving in about two months,” he said.
“Shaving what?” many said.
“My legs. I’m a bike rider. A racer. Shaving is what everyone does.”
The room went quiet, except for the woman.
“Okay, Lance. I can understand a big-headed guy wearing a teardrop helmet for better time, but how much resistance does a leg hair create. I’ve always found that argument weak.”
“It’s a psychological thing?” someone asked.
“Fashion?” asked another.
“Fetish?” asked the woman.
The man listened until he’d heard enough.
“None of that,” he said. “When you crash a bike going thirty miles an hour, like I did last year, you get road rash. If you don’t shave your legs before you crash, you drive dirt and hair and stuff into an open wound. That spells out infection. A clean shave on a biker leg is easier to clean up and gets you back on the saddle sooner.”
“So it’s first aid?” the lady asked. “It’s about hygiene?”
“Do you like doing it? That’s the real question?”
“It’s just another thing to do,” he said. “If I didn’t have to, I wouldn’t. See, there’s two types of biker, those who have crashed, and those who will crash. It’s part of the game. I crashed on a slick spot on the second to last turn of a race I was winning. I was ahead when I skidded and broke my collarbone and skinned my down leg from ankle to hip. I couldn’t do much about the broken bones, but I was glad I didn’t get an infection on the road rash.”
He looked at his watch and left the sauna.
The woman smiled. “The real question is, does he ride a bike as an excuse to shave his legs like a super model?”
“If he doesn’t do it in the off-season, I’d say no,” one of the guys said.
“Do super models have an off-season?”
“Yes, a permanent off-season. It’s called getting old.”
“Older than you?”
“Maybe, but I’m getting better. That’s the sauna difference.”