It’s been over two years since I last shaved my armpits. Despite countless instances of rude commentary and assertions that it is extremely unattractive, I nevertheless persist in my anti-capitalist-patriarchal pursuits.

As one of the only women I know who does not shave her pits, I’ve realized that many are unaware of the day-to-day occurrences of a young woman with armpit hair. It’s my responsibility to represent the hairy women of the modern world and educate others on what it means to be a woman with pit hair. Thus, I present to you, a series of true, non-exaggerated facts that exemplify my experiences. And, no, I will not be shaving my armpits any time soon.

1. Every time I am met with an unrequited romantic or sexual proposal, I simply lift my arms and BAM! The luminosity of the thick, brown waves pouring from my pits blind my pursuer.

I send them running away, quaking in fear with the taste of body odor in their mouths.

2. I am, in fact, automatically more manly than every other woman with clean-shaven armpits.

The longer, darker and thicker my hair is, the greater my testosterone levels are. I am grosser, smellier and more obnoxious than any other woman — these being intrinsically male traits. This is a known fact.

3. As soon as my hair grew to its fullest, I began morphing into a man.

I belch, invest far too much energy in my March Madness bracket and manspread on every vehicle of public transport. Sometimes, I even throw in an occasional “Nice ass!” and “Smile for me, sweetheart!” when I see a particularly delectable woman on the street.

4. My parents renounced me after I gave them a “bad reputation” as the caretakers of a woman with armpit hair. 

My body hair does, in fact, reflect poorly on my dear, feminine mother, so I cannot even argue with her logic. After all, who gave their little girl — whose name translates to “princess” — the ability to diminish even one ounce of her femininity for the sake of personal comfort and freedom of choice?

5. I attract the unwanted attention of baby-boomers and Karens wherever I go in a tank top.

Their glares only fuel my power, allowing my hair to grow even longer and thicker with every snide remark and side-eye. To all the 60-year-old men and soccer moms out there, your discomfort is my nourishment.

6. Every night I dedicate roughly 30-minutes to my curly hair routine. 

First I lather on Shea Moisture’s “Curl Mousse for Frizz Control,” followed by their “Coconut and Hibiscus Curl-Enhancing Smoothie” and some serious scrunching. And voila! My pits yield beautiful, well-defined curls.

7. No man will touch me as long as they can see my pit hair.

As soon as the brown tangles of my thick mane become visible, my very touch shocks them to their core. I have witnessed countless men cower in fear, and a few began weeping for the comfort of their hairless mothers.

8. Every full moon my hair spreads, covering my entire body. 

On these nights, I meet with my fellow hairy women to drink the blood of the men who rejected our advances because of their unproblematic “preferences.” As we dance in the nude around a most magnificent campfire, we hold hands, sing songs and embrace our hair in peace.

9. In dangerous situations, I will my hair to become one with my body.

My thick, brown locks develop a conscious mind, stretching down the length of my arms and choking my attacker. As I watch the life seep from their eyes, I hear them cry for simpler times — before the liberal mobs dispelled body-shaming, when women felt disgrace over their naturally-growing tresses and closely resembled hairless cats.

10. The money I’ve saved on shaving cream and razors has left me with considerable supplemental funds.

What will I purchase with all of this newfound, disposable income? Boxed Franzia? bell hooks’ “Feminist Theory: From Margin to Center?” Stickers that say “Destroy the Patriarchy” and “The Future is Female?” So many products to choose from!

11. I can get creative with the color of my hair, mixing and matching until my body resembles SpongeBob’s “pretty patties.”

My hair creates a space for additional creative expression, providing the opportunity to try on fun, wacky colors without the fear of permanence or long-term commitment and the ability to match my current aesthetics. Currently, I boast rose-gold pit hair that compliments my silky pink dress of last weekend’s fraternity date party.

12. Many have told me that I will never find a beau with my shaggy pits and feminist attitude, rendering my relationship status as single until the day I either shave or die.

The realm of dating is not easy to navigate as is, and even harder when so many men despise body hair on women. To this I say good riddance! Believe me, I WANT to dissuade men from being interested in me. No sarcasm here, I just genuinely want men to leave me alone. If you are male and you are reading this, please, I beg you, let me exist in peace.

With all of this newfound knowledge, I hope that you can reconsider what it means to be a woman and simply let your body do what it is meant to do without any intervention. After all, why is it the norm for men to have armpit hair but not women, when it naturally grows for both of us? Could it be rooted in Gillette Razor’s capitalist agenda of the 1920s? The pedophilic idea that women are more attractive when they are hairless? This is something that all people — men and women alike — must consider in analyzing the stigma that surrounds female body hair and the problematic institutions that this phenomenon is rooted in.

Sarah Liez writes primarily about gender issues and social phenomena. Write to her at [email protected].