hosting by

Bus One Seven
Take it All Off
by Roderick Armageddon

So I’m standing in the bathroom, naked as a jaybird in June, staring into the mirror. In one hand is a can of freshly shaken Colgate shave cream; in the other is a gleaming new Gillette Sensor razor. It’s 1995 and I’ve decided that the best possible way for me to find my place in the world is to cram my fat ass into a heavily sequined dress and a pair of black, five-inch stilettos. The thought of slitting my wrists with the Sensor or perhaps just drowning myself in the shave cream comes to mind, but it passes just as quickly. Too easy. Too selfish. Too stupid. No more excuses, big girl, let’s just shave this bitch and get the show on the road.

I’m not sure what comes to mind when you shave your face, armpits, legs or perhaps the occasional naughty bit, but for me it’s almost always an entertaining and nostalgic -- if not painful -- experience. Nostalgic? Indeed. Every time I break out the razor these days (which isn’t often), I think back to that first full-body shave. I was broken hearted, in need of acceptance and questioning my own sexuality. I was also in the company of a small gaggle of drag queens in southeast Idaho —- far from the land of open minds and big tippers. As a preferred member of this esteemed high court of testosterprincesses, better known as the Naugahyde Clan, I found friendship, fun and a new outlet for artistic expression. There was just one problem with making myself up as a sizzling starlet —- albeit a slightly large, Bette Midler-esque starlet: wigs or no wigs, drag queens are hairy and that fur has got to go. Yes, indeed. Being a queen means you have to get extremely friendly with your razor, or find a gimp who’s willing to do it for you.

I was lucky enough not to be cursed with excessive body hair until I turned 27, so at the ripe young age of 21, the worst I had to worry about before putting on the frocks was a five o’clock shadow, a small pasture of fur under my arms, a few straggling wiggle worms on my chest and a relatively tame batch of leg lettuce. Standing in front of that mirror it seemed relatively simple. Cream up and dive in. I only wish someone would’ve warned me about how terribly sensitive skin can be when you mow down its environmental blanket for the very first time. True, I have no real use for body hair. After all, I’m not a Cro-Magnon foraging for snow hares across the tundra. Nope, I wear blue jeans and button up shirts —- and the occasional showgirl dress. Nevertheless, after turning both legs into my best impression of a slaughterhouse, I proceeded to make my chest look like I’d spent too many hours in the tanning booth. This was living the drag lifestyle, and this was extremely uncomfortable.

Cassie St. John, a lively little queen with few inhibitions, could grow facial hair simply by breathing, so she always made sure to pile on a thick matte of Dermablend just before heading to the club for a show. The creamy layer was just thick enough to conceal the bed of fresh black barbs that managed to rear their ugly heads after only a couple of hours following the shave. On the night of my fateful "first shave," Cassie handed her jar of Dermablend to me and said with a giggle, "Honey, your chest is gonna blind somebody. Put a blanket on that damn fire." I obliged and made my way to the stage, a better, less bright, and still extremely uncomfortable starlet.

If I have one piece of advice when addressing unwanted hair, it's that preparation is everything, kids. Be patient and work your way into it -- especially if your body is covered with a thin coat of what it still thinks is the skin of an infant, fresh from the womb. Whatever your reason, be it cycling, swimming, sexiness, drag or just some funky furless fetish, play it safe and give yourself plenty of time. After all, big girls don't cry, so don't give them a reason to.