To shave? To wax? To laser? Finding your hair removal niche isn't easy. After dabbling in the more torturous methods, beauty writer Grace Timothy vows to go back to basics

Last week, Wahanda reported a 165% increase in waxing appointments. I get it – you’re getting your legs out more often now and you don’t want everyone playing connect-the-dots with your stubble. But while I too want to don a swimsuit and frolic on the beach, free of care and hair, I won’t be waxing. Don’t get me wrong, I like a smooth shin as much as the next Wahanda patron, just not enough to wax. 
 
You see, I’ve had quite a chequered history with hair removal. I began to consider joining the fray when I was 13. I had no hair to speak of, being a fair-haired child, but my best friend had her legs waxed and I was jealous. To me it was one of the trappings of womanhood - alongside lipstick, bras and Cacherel Anais Anais – where glamorous ladies in crisp white tunics covered you in honey which made your skin all shiny like Daryl Hannah’s. I begged my mum to book me an appointment. “ALL MY FRIENDS ARE DOING IT!” I reasoned, but to no avail. The baby-soft down remained, until finally – having caught me butchering my calves over her white bath mat with my dad’s razor – she bought me a tube of Immac. Once a week I’d head for the bathroom – “got to do my legs,” I’d explain to my parents with an exaggerated sigh and eye-roll – and watch with awe as my hair magically dissolved, leaving nothing behind but smooth skin - Barbie-smooth but without the rubber seam. 
 
I never considered using it to nuke the little brown curls bristling through my Snoopy pants. It wasn’t until I was about to lose my virginity to the school heartthrob at 17 that I became aware of pubic topiary, as he gently suggested, “Maybe you could get a trim.” Christ. I didn’t even have a proper bush back then, it was more like a miniature Spider plant. But I was an impressionable teen and this was my first vaginal appraisal. The depilatory cream suddenly seemed a bit toxic in such close proximity to my insides, so I bought a razor and decided – god knows why – to shave it into a lightning strike. I even fashioned a stencil from a box of Weetabix – very Blue Peter - but sadly didn’t have thick enough hair, so ended up with half a Tetris brick instead. I shaved it off in a huff, leaving a disturbingly smooth mound. He was still thrilled. My friends were convinced he was a paedo. 

"having caught me butchering my calves over her white bath mat with my dad’s razor – Mum bought me a tube of Immac"

Shockingly, we broke up. But by then I was in love - with my new razor. My legs were silken, with a highly pleasing gloss down the centre. My pits were speckle-free in a flash. My bikini line… itched like hell. But, the neat little triangle that grew back was agreeably symmetrical to a neat freak like me. It was instant, cheap and far less smelly than depilation. I’ve enjoyed shaving ever since, aside from the time at University I drunkenly attempted a below the waist short-back-and-sides whilst still wearing cowboy boots, and slipped on my own shorn locks.
 
I did wax once. When I was 25, I agreed to a boating holiday in the South of France with my boyfriend and two male friends, before considering my options. Where would I work up the lather to shave on a boat? What would I do on the in-between days when my bikini line throbbed like a Belisha Beacon? Flashes of ‘MAYBE YOU COULD GET A TRIM!’ raged in my ears. I booked in for my first wax – how bad could it be? It was horrific. It burned, it tore, it bruised… it was like an unintentional labiaplasty. I’ve since experienced childbirth, an episiotomy and stitches without pain relief – this ‘beauty treatment’ was worse. 
 
After the few days of having to hide the bubble wrap that used to be my skin, I was happy with the results, but the thought of paying £30 to be ripped to shreds again? I took up with my razor again, lovingly placing it back in the shower caddy. 
 
A little while later I saw an advert for laser hair removal. “Pain-free!” it promised, “Wave goodbye to shaving rash FOREVER!” Although I could only afford to do one area – the bikini line – I signed up for six sessions at 6-week intervals. But in the event, it hurt so much that upon arriving for my fifth appointment, I had a panic attack and faked a pregnancy, knowing they would refuse to treat me. 
 
I’ve also tried the natural look, of course. Having now had a baby, the lasered hair made a valiant return. And it seems the tide is turning against the porn-inspired hairless look, anyway. This month sees the second Armpits 4 August campaign – the women’s equivalent of Movember where underarms are left to sprout for a month to ‘challenge beauty standards’ and raise money for Verity, the Polycystic Ovary Syndrome charity. 
 

"I went for laser hair removal but it hurt so much that I had a panic attack and faked a pregnancy, knowing they would refuse to treat me"

It’s no longer as surprising – though still newsworthy, apparently – to see Hollwood legends like Julia Roberts and Drew Barrymore flashing the dark froth atop their couture. Others – Kate Winslet, for example – are eagerly donning merkins to boost their on-screen muffs. I mean, how many Oscar nominees do you hear shouting, “I waxed my ass for tonight!” Exactly. In fact, even Queen of the super-groomed, Gwyneth Paltrow admitted recently that the sheer Antonio Berardi dress she wore to Hollywood's Iron Man 3 premiere in April had sent her people scrambling about for a razor. "I work a 70s vibe," she explained.

But while I enjoy indulging my follicles, I personally find greater pleasure in seeing the hairs pool around me in the shower tray. It’s not that I’m disgusted by my body hair, or care that anyone else might be. I just like a freshly shorn leg. I don’t protest against sexism with my legs, pits and foof and feel no less of a woman – or feminist – without a few stray hairs.

It may be considerably less fancy but, it's far easier, cheaper and less painful so I shall shave on. It’s not without its flaws, of course. It has its own rash, spawns pimples and sadly involves speedier re-growth and the odd nick. Still, having tried all other methods of hair removal – and letting it grow – I’ve developed a newfound fondness for my little blue Venus razor. And if a stubbly rash should appear en route to the beach next week? I can always hold my child strategically in front of my thighs.