Smooth Operator

When I got to college, where hitting frat row in little more than one's underwear was encouraged, I decided I must do something drastic about my hair problem—even more drastic than the shaving-my-arms incident. Armed with a bottle of cream depilatory, I stepped into my shower and coated my back, chest, stomach and, yes, butt, in the smelly solution. Shivering, I waited the allotted time, then washed it off, my skin prickling from the chemicals.

I was smooth. I was hair-free. I was ready to put on my skimpiest dress and get a big ol' cup of jungle juice in celebration. But, instead of being thrilled, I knew that the hair would inevitably grow back and I would have to continue to deal with it.

And deal with it I did. The depilatory fueled my hairless obsession and soon, I was spending hours each week shaving (legs and arms), plucking (eyebrows), bleaching (face) and chemically treating (everything else). I treated my skin as if it were a slate I could scrape clean.