Excessive Body Hair…A Hairy Subject Affected By Changing Views by Bill Knell

Excessive Body Hair…

A Hairy Subject Affected By Changing Views

by Bill Knell

Excessive body hair has been an issue for as long as I can remember. As kids, it affected girls with hairy forearms more than boys; especially girls with dark hair colors. Those lucky enough to be blonds tended to get a pass from curious onlookers unless they had a forest growing on their arms.

When it came to what happened in grammar school, even the prettiest girls got stigmatized because of their arm or leg hair. In sixth grade I knew a twelve year old girl named Sarah who used to skip school because she was teased so bad about the hair on her arms and legs. She kept begging her mom to let her shave her legs. Finally, mom gave in and provided Sarah with what she needed to shave and showed her how to do it. She also started shaving her forearms.


Some girls came up with some interesting fixes for excessive forearm hair. They wore long sleeve tops year round, never went to the beach when it was crowded, swam in their pools when no one else was around, told their friends they had a sun allergy and needed to cover up as much as possible, and waxed off or bleached the hair on their arms.

Sadly, some girls I knew in junior high and high school fell victim to weirdo guys and girls who had hairy forearm fetishes. After befriending or dating the girls for awhile, they would ask to take pictures of their arms, cut off some hair as a keepsake and do other weird stuff. The girls involved often put up with those behaviors because they were lonely and few guys wanted to date them.


In the late 1960s, and all through the 1970s, everyone was into the “natural look”. That, combined with the Women's Liberation Movement, meant that girls didn't have to shave anything to look good. By the 1980s the natural look had faded and girls began shaving again. No one cared how much hair girls had on their arms as long as they shaved their underarms and legs, looked cute, wore the right clothes and perfectly styled  their hair.

In the 1990s to the early 2000s stars like Julia Roberts, Sarah Michelle Gellar, Jennifer Connelly, Melissa Joan Hart and Anne Hathaway made their marks on the big and small screens despite having noticable amounts of forearm hair. Some like Sarah, who had naturally dark hair, obviously chose to dye her arm hair as was obvious in her role as Buffy. I didn't care either way. She was cute and became my favorite vampire slayer. 

Not all celebrities have been able to embrace their excessive arm hair. Jenna Ortega opened up in an interview saying that a friend of hers in school told her that she had “gorilla arms”. From then on she began shaving her arms every day and still does. She is really cute so I could care less how much or how little amounts of hair she has on her body. She has made Wednesday my favorite day of the week and I'm not the only one that feels that way.

Fortunately, views have changed again allowing for a more accepting attitude of girls that do not shave their underarms or legs. Several celebrities like Julia Roberts, Miley Cyrus and Drew Barrymore have walked the red carpet at various events with unshaven underarms and/or legs. Before you judge yourself too harshly for having hair in places where nature and genetics put it, try to remember that many European women do not shave anything; and they look just fine to me!



Kailey Fields offers readers fresh and very human fiction stories that are unique, yet relatable.


The seeds of her self-doubt had been sown in her early years. She'd been relentlessly bullied in school for being different, for her passion for gaming, which had been dismissed as a “boy thing.” That hurt had left deep scars. Creating Lemonade had been a shield, a way to deflect the negativity she faced in the real world. It was a safe space where she could be celebrated for her skills, her wit, and her personality, instead of facing ridicule.


The air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. Each step crunched on the forest floor, a sound amplified in the suffocating silence of the Blackwood Forest. My breath hitched in my throat, a thin plume of white mist disappearing into the inky blackness. The only light came from my lantern, a feeble spark against the overwhelming darkness that pressed in from all sides, swallowing the forest in its shadowy embrace. Above, the branches of ancient trees twisted like skeletal fingers, their gnarled silhouettes scratching at the moonless sky.

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The darkness claimed me, swallowing me whole. But in death, a twisted metamorphosis occurred. The venom of betrayal, the searing agony of death, transformed into a cold, unrelenting fire. I became a specter, an instrument of vengeance. The chilling weight of my decomposing body became a burden that fueled my relentless pursuit.

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Grandma Elara's tales filled the quiet evenings at her house. The aroma of woodsmoke and simmering herbs hung heavy in the air, mingling with the scent of old books and the comforting warmth of her presence. Her cozy old house seemed to hum with a gentle energy, a place where ancient stories and timeless secrets intertwined. The antique furniture, each piece telling a story of its own, seemed to come alive as she spun her tales, the very atmosphere of the house adding to the mystique of the Ceasg and its watery realm.

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Cerelia, a museum employee with a penchant for the obscure and a healthy dose of skepticism tempered by an insatiable curiosity, had been cleaning the newly acquired collection of ancient artifacts. She was meticulous, and painstaking in her work, a sharp contrast to the hurried pace of the city outside the museum walls. She liked the quiet solitude of the museum, a world apart from the noisy urban jungle. She found solace in the relics of the past, each object whispering a story of bygone eras.

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Aislinn felt it too, a growing sense of unease, not just from the tales of a missing Prince, but from the visions teased by the necklace. The shadowed figure, the one with piercing eyes and a cruel smile,haunted her dreams and even invaded her waking moments. He was connected to the necklace, a palpable sense of threat radiating from the glowing pendant. The prince's fate, she now realized, was entwined with her own. And somewhere, a darkness waited, a darkness that the necklace seemed both to warn her about and guide her towards. The quiet village of Oakhaven, with its familiar rhythms and predictable patterns, could no longer contain her. 



The seeds of her self-doubt had been sown in her early years. She'd been relentlessly bullied in school for being different, for her passion for gaming, which had been dismissed as a “boy thing.” That hurt had left deep scars. Creating Lemonade had been a shield, a way to deflect the negativity she faced in the real world. It was a safe space where she could be celebrated for her skills, her wit, and her personality, instead of facing ridicule.

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She traced the lines on her palm, searching for a familiar scar, a birthmark, anything to tether herself to a stable identity. Nothing. Even her own body felt slightly different, as if her reflection in the warped mirror across the room was an imposter. The subtle variations – the way her hair fell, a new freckle on her cheek, the faintest shift in her eyes – were enough to unsettle her further. It was as if she was perpetually teetering on the edge of a precipice, the ground constantly shifting beneath her feet.

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