Our theme for the month of June is “snapshots.” Writers were asked to submit a piece with a cover photo that they took or created.

I took a look at myself in the mirror: it’s the beginning of May, and I’m wearing the same baggies, hair long and defined by two dreaded knots with frizzy split ends because I’m scarred from an Aveda Salon haircut a year ago and won’t find a new hairdresser.

And my legs are hairy.

Like really hairy.

And I used to swim competitively—where nothing got shaved no matter how desperate you were and how many school dances you had between you and Conference Finals. So I know hairy.

But this year, what started as No-Shave-November became No-Shave-Through-May this year. I just got sick of shaving my legs.

The reviews of the look from various sources were predictably mixed.

Kids were harsh, even if I was wearing my fancy gnome-ish khakis and sandals. A couple of my little friends at the school I work at during the day walk past me in the hall with dismay anew each time they see the hair. One especially outspoken 7th grader told me: “It’s really bad, Ms. Eisma. The worst I’ve ever seen.”

As if I had a terminal disease. Or poison ivy.

My mom is not a fan seeing it blow in the breeze when we bike trails together. I look like a wild woman, unkempt. My brother gets embarrassed I think, but he rarely voices it as long as I’m dressed like a true hippy—we’re talking the Moosejaw baggie shorts and Terra Firma top with my beat up Blundstones—and only when we’re driving in my Toyota FJ. I wear long pants to the wedding I have to go to. Just in case.

But it hasn’t been all bad. Halfway through a three hour hangout with a friend, I pulled my legs into a criss-cross-applesauce position to us both exploding at the sight of each other’s knee beards.

The feeling didn’t come with anything bad attached—not shame, not embarrassment, not excuses–and it shocked me. It was suddenly like our hairy legs were an accessory, and we were nailing the look.

My legs have been embarrassing to me most of my life. Built like a dwarf, my legs are thick, sturdy, hairy, and very squat, there’s lots of scars that get more noticeable the longer I’m in the summer sun. Shaving was, I suppose, a way to fit the one box I could check in what I saw as women’s fashion standards.

Even saying that, I’ve always realized unshaved legs are a natural state.

The precedence for leg-shaving in the US only goes back about a hundred years. Still, the idea is so deeply part of my surrounding beauty culture now that until recently, ninety-two percent of women in the US shaved. Historically, it seems fashion trends were one of the powering forces that pushed women to shave as more skin was revealed in the cut of dress—hairless bodies were needed to “match” the time period’s style.

Yet I’ve always perceived being hairy as a statement more so than a preference–and never really thought of them as something to work with as part of my unique wardrobe.

So I searched twenty or so fashion blogs from between 2019 through today for what to wear to compliment the legs I’ve ignored all winter long. (They were harder to find than I thought–but if I wanted to learn how to hide my hairy legs, the literature is vast.)

Here is, in summary, what I compiled during my research:

What to Wear with Hairy Legs:

• Hairy legs go with “a free, easygoing outdoor lifestyle for which it’s important to be able to walk and move easily.” Clothing and accessories worn with hairy legs should match that lifestyle.
• Flat style shoes go with hairy legs: for example, flat sandals, Oxfords, loafers, etc.
• Vintage Styles (a very broad statement, but no more exact dates could be assigned to this bullet point after much digging).
• Work boots or combat boots, and tall statement socks or tights.
• Sundresses.
• Anything floral.
• Cropped pants and trousers that show ankles.
• Equally fuzzy sweaters or accessories.
• Match the color of your leg hair—beige clothes for blond hair, black for black hair, etc.

For seven days, I wore only clothes that supposedly celebrate and compliment my Sasquatch-worth of leg hair for its last run of the season, before I got sick of the way sweat sticks to it and bugs get caught in it. I’ve collected each outfit here:

What I’ve found?

Not surprisingly, the more I worked to compliment a part of my body I’ve always assumed was the worst part of me, the more I realized I’m pretty good at it. I’m good at finding outfits that make me feel confident. I’m good at wearing functional outfits that reflect this “free, outdoor lifestyle” that supposedly gives a white woman an excuse to have hairy legs—and I’m good at living that lifestyle too, coincidentally. I’ve never really thought about fashion in a way that’s unique to me and my body—call it a symptom of hand-me-downs and the work uniform khakis I’ve grown to love. I’m no pioneer in fashion, nor in feminism, though I have a deep appreciation for both. By the time this gets published, I’ll have shaved legs.

I’m just a seasonal leg hair grower.

And I can learn to love the legs that let me hike, bike, run, swim, dance, and run like the wild woman I am.

Gabrielle Eisma

Gabrielle Eisma graduated Calvin with a BFA in studio art and writing in 2022. She’s from Grand Rapids, Michigan, where she now works as a writer and illustrator for books for (mostly) children and middle grade readers.