Even now I’m not always present when shaving, thinking through something that happened earlier in the day or towards something that needs doing tomorrow, even though I know better. I was eleven or twelve when I started shaving, a process undertaken at the goading of the neighborhood boys who’d pointedly mentioned the tasks of “real women.” All the soft, pale, baby-fine hairs on my legs disappearing in furious and methodical swiping, replaced in days by itchy sandpaper stubs; one of the greatest tricks ever played on women continuing for yet another generation.

By the time a few months went by, by the time I’d realized the hellish routine I’d continue for the rest of my life, it was too late. And so, every few nights, I’d swipe, swipe, swipe in the shower, mind drifting--until one night, when I sliced too carelessly, too deeply, bringing up so many layers of skin the razor stopped, could not be pulled up any further.

I turned off the shower, sat on the counter by the sink, filling the bowl with my blood as I called for help. Our belongings lay in boxes all around the house as we prepared to move in a couple days. There was nothing to prevent infection; nothing but toothpaste. I passed out at least once, whether from blood loss or pain I’m not sure, and over thirty years later I’m still here to tell the tale with a scar to prove it.

If I’m ever in a boat full of women, sitting around the table, drinking whiskey, fearing for our lives against a demented male shark, I can’t wait to throw my leg up, point to the scar and say, “shaving!” and watch as the women around me point to their armpits, legs, and crotches screaming, “me too!”

Sunday Dutro is a creative nonfiction writer with publications in or forthcoming with Panorama Journal, Drexel’s Paper Dragon, and BarBar. She is a UCDavis, Writing By Writers Manuscript Boot-Camp, and Haven I Writing Retreat alum living in Montana with her family. Find her at sundaydutro.com