Shakespeare, on shaving

What happens to me when I'm severely over-tired and my legs haven't seen the business end of a razor in a while? Poetry! Of course! Uh... Maybe not.

To shave, or not to shave: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The pains and stinging of hot wax,
Or to take arms against a tube of Nair,
And by exfoliating end stubble? To remove: to lose;
No more; and by shaving to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
Of people who look upon thine hairy legs, 'tis an abomination
Devoutly to be seen. To pluck, to cry;
To scream: perchance to swear: ay, there's the pain;
For in that pain of removal what swears may come
When we have shouted off this afternoon,
Must give us pause: there's the listeners
That makes calamity of such foul words;
For who would bear the tweasers and razors of feminine hygine,
The oppressor's wrong, the average man's thoughtless,
The pangs of woman's image, the magazines say,
The insolence of society and the people
That demand hairless legs of the girls,
When he himself might never be caught dead
With a bare kneecap? who would have bear legs,
To grunt and sweat under a shower head,
But that the dread of skinning your ankle,
The rash and bumps of sink that without care have ingrown and
No hairs returns, puzzles the mind
And makes us rather bear from the bikini down
Than leave what nature has given us naturally?
Thus conscience does make fashion victims of us all;
And thus the native hair of women
Is slicker o'er with the pale cast of moisturiser,
And enterprises of great cosmetics abound
With this ludicras notion of smooth calves,
And lose the hair of all.--Soft you skin!
The fair legs! World, in thy minds
Be all my hairs unseen.

Article Author: Veshka Valkyrie

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